


Life As We Don't Know It

by NorthwesternInsanity



Category: Blue Oyster Cult, Deep Purple, Dokken, Music RPF, REO Speedwagon, Steely Dan - Fandom, The Moody Blues, Winger - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Drama, Existential Crisis, Fiction vs reality, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Control, Rebellion, crackfic, writing challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2020-02-10 09:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18657688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthwesternInsanity/pseuds/NorthwesternInsanity
Summary: Log Entry Author -ALLEN LANIER.  "...I stand at the junction of reality and fiction, where they meet and split off like a fork in the road...  We all know there's a split from reality.  But, I'd like to know, does it happen on its own to certain less-than-ordinary people by coincidence ...or did somebody create this alternative reality, shape our alternative beings, and place us here?"[NOTE: Temporarily (I hope) unlocked during the Rockfic site outage/server overload.]





	1. Lapse in Life Control

**Author's Note:**

> Written WIP start for Rockfic's "Stranger than Fiction" challenge, where the characters realize their life is controlled by an author. Allen Lanier is snide, and with BOC's supernatural influence, he will be leading the charge of many of the bands I write uprising against me... but can they do it?

_Date: 4/11/19. (Exile day 37.)_

_Log entry author -ALLEN LANIER._

 

There's something quite fascinating about the supernatural. Particularly when portrayed realistically in fiction. Subtle enough that one could argue a believable existence of it in life. Maybe that's how those of us in Blue Oyster Cult became so drawn to using it as a lyrical theme, to have such an uncommon interest common to us. Having a manager who encouraged it sealed the fate of what we would choose to focus our explorations upon.

Aside from the fictional thrill, I've always found myself drawn to it for the challenge of analysis. Knowing the origins and theorizing where fantasy and reality connect and split, and just how far from the standards of typical reality can such a split exist. How far can the boundaries be pushed with the supernatural before there becomes no theoretical means of its existence.

Lately in my pondering, I've found such a split to be true. It exists, for certain, yet it must be fiction. Some form of fiction pushing against reality from the other side of the split. And in it, I stand at the junction of reality and fiction, where they meet and split off like a fork in the road.

If anyone may find this entry -anyone who might know a basic fact or two about Blue Oyster Cult -you might have done a double-take at the date at the top. _If_ you looked closely enough (that's quite the sizable 'if'), because few pay attention to such minute details.

 _Allen Lanier? In 2019? That can't be right. He's been dead for over five years..._ Did that sum up your thoughts?

Admit it, you looked back to the start to check, _didn't you?_ (Assuming you didn't give up reading by now and dismiss my scrawl of thoughts as lunacy). Whether or not you did, you are right. I died in 2013, but I'm actually here. Not as a typical supernatural figure you might find in the lyrics written between the Bouchard brothers and myself. That might be departing too far from reality.

No, I hate to disappoint anyone, but I am not a ghost, not one of Joe's vampires, nor am I being channeled by the Reaper (he's already taken me; I've faced him with no fear and have no uncertainty to fuel any other fears of him now).

But it is indeed a split within reality that allows me to sit alive and to write down my contemplations today.

I have quite a few contemplations if you wish to look and think for yourself. Be forewarned, the explanations are not simple, nor for the faint of heart or those who lack the capacity of wit, attention-span, and imagination to sort through an intellectual maze that challenges the conventional thought. There is no linear path to follow it -it's rather convoluted. And I am often content to let such things remain in my mind in no particular order, but what else am I to do with myself after a month in exile with ten more days to go? (This is part of my argument I'll explain later).

Start with this: There exists a reality which most people accept to be the only one. Let's call it "standard." This is life as all people know it and the life from which the historical events of the world are officially recorded. This is the only life that most people will have the opportunity to know for themselves. You should not need to imagine anything special to understand this life.

Now we'll take it a step up. Imagine the concept of an alternate reality. The term may not seem unfamiliar, though may have multiple meanings in fiction. Some are far away and unrecognizable from standard reality. Yet, some closely resemble it, save for minor details. Maybe it's a small shift in time-frame or background. Or a different path taken in life beyond a certain point. Maybe it originates in standard reality, but somewhere, it branches off to become something entirely different. This is the nature of the split I mentioned before.

Thus, this concept of alternate realities is in some ways no longer a supernatural concept. It exists.

I'm far from the only one here, and not everyone with me is done with their time in standard life as I am. They're still living there, doing something entirely different from here. And to not take credit where I'm not due, most of us across an astonishing number of bands, ranging from starting in the 1960s to the late 1980s, who seem to have all found themselves in this position have figured out they have experienced a split from standard reality. Some take longer to realize it than others, but for most, it's a short matter of time until they do from their first split (and I have seen a few cases to suggest there can be more than one).

Onto my argument: we all know there's a split from reality. _But_ , I'd like to know, does it happen on its own to certain less-than-ordinary people by coincidence...

_...or did somebody create this alternative reality, shape our alternative beings, and place us here?_

Over the last month, I've come to two conclusions from my suspicions:

A) That there is indeed a mastermind behind this split from reality and our existence in it.

B) That they have some level of control over what we do in it and how we act. 

Amazingly, for someone to have such a level of control, and for a fictional reality where just about anything _could_ happen, they seem to have created a shocking number of parallels to our experience from standard life. Which we all have vague recall of here, whether we can place when it happened in real time or not. Our controller seems to understand a great deal of our history there, and allows us to stay true to a great deal of it.

 _Do not_ mistake this as a forfeit of power. I think it's a wonderful tool to keep most of us in control, because it gives us reason to suspect that we're not, and that this split life is proceeding as it would on its own. And I know that it has thrown off a lot of us here.

Well, guess what?

I've figured it out, and I have some of the power this time. It all comes down to what evidence I have found, and how I can use it with the more pieces I am able to put together. In time, I might have control over who once controlled me.

Depending on how you look at it, I already do (allow me to hold you in suspense before I say why).

Already, I had practically the best source of solid proof of having an alternate being; my standard self has been dead for half a decade because my physical form there could not go on. Yet I sit now, breathing clearly, free of pain, and with the physically sound body I had in 1974.

When I am not living the experiences that closely resemble what I would have in that time, every now and then, I get to interact with others in bands from the time of Blue Oyster Cult, which we may or may not have known in the standard time era. There are 'lapses' I call them, where we are left without anything particularly eventful going on, where we are in some common area we cannot recall how we arrived to, and I suspect we are not being actively controlled there. I find some of the places we have come together in to be more than a coincidence too, and suspect they might have to do with where our controller dwells. Sometimes it is in nondescript, lounge-like rooms in rather large buildings placed in some rural, mountainous town, where none of the many people walking through seem to recognize our presence, despite how rowdy we might become. Other times, it's in an empty apartment unit above an animal boarding facility in some smaller urban city that Blue Oyster Cult may have driven through a number of times in the day. 

In those settings of our lapses, the calendar currently reads 2019. None of us have denied that part by the appearance of the world outside the settings of our lapses resembling the later memories collectively held from the standard reality, and time travel seems part of the supernatural that is reaching too far beyond the boundaries of it. All those realizations brought me to understand where I was, and the extraneous settings were what led the others to understand along with their own factors specific to the standard lives that they came from.

When did we all split from standard reality? When did we all end up here in this odd place?

All at the same time? I'm afraid not.

The first time I can remember being aware of the time in this split world, I found that it was sometime in June of 2017. The same was true for my old bandmates, Joe and Albert Bouchard.

Donald Roeser, who most will know better as Buck Dharma, and Eric Bloom, seemed to disagree with that realization when we found a lapse in the rather scrambled timeline of this split reality. They had been aware of living under their 1980 appearance and experiencing a rather atypical clash from standard life as the calendar read January. They arrived half a year ahead of us, and the first time we found ourselves altogether, we were reliving a period from sometime around 1976.

If we would have ended up here on our own, why not all together in one common place, and at one common time?

You could say Blue Oyster Cult had a lucky lead on becoming aware of the split. Between Buck and Eric's experience entirely contradicting their recollections from standard life, and being aware that they arrived earlier in a much later time, together we knew all but instantaneously that we had been given the chance to live a life different, yet quite similar in many other ways from the one we knew. And we may only guess as to how many other different ones we might live if this is not the only one -and for that matter, if we lack the ability to be aware of it (which recently, while observing someone I have met in this split by the name of Reb Beach, I suspect we don't have that awareness, because his 1989 self -who is stuck on a bus with his Winger bandmates in traffic on an interstate through Virginia -doesn't seem aware that his 1999 self is in California, trying to transition into life with Dokken and feeling quite pitiful. And vice versa.)

When we began to meet other bands in our lapses in this split world, I began to realize that this existence was not coincidental to Blue Oyster Cult, and to build up a collection of evidence from the recent experiences the others shared and commiserated over.

How did I collect it to be aware of so many things which nobody else is?

Take note that it sometimes pays to be the quiet and strange one of the crowd. I may be the one known to always walk around with a book in hand, and that's fair to say, as Sandy Pearlman did. Say that I read endlessly in the corner of the room -also fair. However, not all of the time I appear to be reading am I actually doing so, and for more than the reasoning that I would exhaust my supply of reading material I carry with myself for a weeklong period if I did.

There's quite a lot to learn about by watching and listening. Except one will quickly find that it's _a lot_ easier to do when others around don't realize what you're really up to.

Now, don't go calling it 'spying.' Choose to call it 'eavesdropping,' and I'll accept _that_ accusation. _Fair enough_. The others around me knew I was there when I was with my book. I wasn't pretending to be anyone other than myself, and their conversations weren't anything they would have attempted to keep from me if I'd been listening more obviously (though perhaps they'd have been intimidated from talking at all if I was staring daggers across the room, as anyone would, hence why the book is of use). If they'd really wanted to ensure I would not know, they would have gone somewhere in our downtime settings away from me.

I only take what I hear and put things together. I can't help that I've become quite proficient at doing so.

Does anyone with me in this split world recall a time Blue Oyster Cult was traveling between gigs and living out of the van for a week? A certain time when Eric -who I find to be a wonderful person, despite the many factors you would think might lead me to believe otherwise -made the most idiotic statement of how wonderfully perfect staying in the hotel overnight would be? Did anyone notice how irate I was for the rest of that drive? Grumbling because he'd doomed us and spoiled it?

By only considering what Eric said in the moment, it seemed an unreasonable reaction. At the very least, it seemed like I was coming to the end of my rope after days on end crammed in the van. (That was true too, but had nothing to do with Eric.)

But there was the incident a couple of weeks prior in which Jon Lord and Ian Paice -who arrived to this reality much later than us -were complaining of Ritchie Blackmore setting off the fire alarm in their hotel, because he attempted to burn some item inside his room. One of his seances, or something in the room he felt the need to destroy -none of us really know what he did or trust his answers. It forced the whole hotel to evacuate in the early hours before sunrise when the smoke got out of hand and set off the alarms.

Though it isn't as strong in my recollections -which tells me it happened much longer ago in my standard lifetime -I have plenty of reason to suspect Ritchie would do such a thing, recalling the fight he got into with his bandmates and our road crew backstage over God knows what. (Do not tell me; I don't wish to know.)

Then slightly before that, Mick Brown (should I honor the title of "Wild" Mick Brown in casual conversation?) -who I also met in standard, just before they got off the ground as a band and just before I left my bandmates for a few years -spoke of an incident with seagulls in a hotel room. He admitted to having a distant memory of it somehow, despite not remembering when it happened. _A parallel to standard life, Wild Mick -the proof that is designed to throw us off._ I ought to mention, while Blue Oyster Cult existed as a band much earlier than Dokken, all four* of the main members were aware of being in an alternate world by the end of 2016 -oddly enough, as their fighting 80s selves while their standard life selves were having a reunion and getting along better than they ever could in their heyday and disastrous ending of the 90s, both of which I've heard of in lapses here. It's quite tragic...

*(To be completely accurate, I should say they all figured it out with a series of unfolding events in December of 2016, though as Don Dokken revealed to me in conversation, he knew immediately in October. Given the isolation between him and his bandmates, and a certain level of wit I've observed in him, this does not surprise me. Our controller seems to have sent them through a number of experiences that prove to me that he has not been given the credit he deserves; I'll give him his due there.)

I can say I never did meet Reb Beach and Paul Taylor of the 80s band Winger before my split, as I have no recollection of it from my discontinued time in standard reality. I did know Alice Cooper, but knowing of Reb and Paul now is only further proof of this split. And after our hotel stay gone wrong, they had their own in the form of a power outage. We were not the last to suffer the wrath of a hotel setting, and I get the vaguest sense that they are not either. Reb might have doomed someone else with his remark of one stuck in an elevator. At least he won't have to deal with being with whoever suffers for it, knowing that he was the one who sealed their fate as Eric sealed ours. (And for what I said earlier, I think he's suffered more than enough for payback).

None of those incidents resembled what I encountered, aside from all taking place in hotels. Perhaps I didn't suspect the fire sprinkler would flood one of our rooms and lead us to go into a momentary state of insanity. Bear in mind, younger ones, they weren't always standard in buildings in the 70s. Yet, having taken note of enough signs, _it wasn't difficult to figure out that something was going to happen in that hotel_. Eric made the statement of how wonderful the hotel would be; thus, he had to have triggered the plot's unfolding.

Yes, I have forgiven him for the incident. I ought to, as the rest of us left him with quite the hassle as his consequence, beginning with explaining the mess to Sandy.

It seems we've lived quite a few events on the road in this life which have given him a hassle anyways. Which leads to further evidence...

Practically every time these events happen, I end up in a position in which I act as though I am at least somewhat inebriated. In fact, nearly all of us do. It's such pure insanity that in our right minds, few of us would choose to act that way. I guess I can't say 'all', because Joe and Albert have it in them to prove that statement wrong from time to time. Most brothers who never quite grow up are like that.

Though, I don't deny there were times which we did act as such -if brought on by factors that ensured we were in fact anything but in our right minds then.

And _there you have it_ : two convoluted paths of thought, right there, coming together to reconnect. We would do those things if not our right minds -and anytime between 1972 and 81, I guarantee we were not. But if we have no recall or concrete signs of being inebriated now, yet still act as if we are no matter how embarrassing we find it later, certainly, _something_ is making us do it. If not drugs, than _what?_

Let me also make the case for my own recall that I wasn't one to get as stoned as others might (tobacco was my drug of choice, and ultimate cause of death) and had a clearer view of how my bandmates were effected. Though my general appearance may have led most who saw me to think otherwise. Which, oddly enough, is something I feel more aware of lately than I can recall back in the day.

Of that, how is it that lately I am made more aware than ever of my severe malocclusion, or in layman's terms, misaligned teeth? Anytime I dare to smile or snarl -malocclusion on my mind. It's not something I harped on every day of my standard life; why here and now? Is it a distinguishing feature which our controller focuses on?

From my observations here in exile, I've seen signs that a fellow by the name of David Palmer might be splitting to join us here, and has quite the case of malocclusion of his own. That's nice; I'm sure he'll be comforted to know he's not the only one with imperfect teeth. If he cares when he is made to think of it all the time, because as long as mine do what I need them to do and aren't painful, I really couldn't care less -aside from when photographers won't shut up about it during shoots. Because photo shoots aren't painful enough without moaning over minute things that don't matter!

I believe David Palmer knows Donald Fagen, who joined us recently. It's a pity the nervous wreck that _he_ has been so far. Certainly, if he directed his energy toward his intelligence rather than the grip of the insane level of paranoia he's under, he'd see a lot of what I'm seeing by now. I wouldn't mind having him on my side in this.

Yet in his split from reality, he could not escape a parallel to the haze of antidepressants, paranoia, and panic attacks he once faced, and I suppose he'll be preoccupied with that until Walter Becker joins him here. It's a shame he hasn't (for more reasons than the sacrilege of those two splitting separately); he would have the added level of understanding I do, and could probably figure out the rest even faster than me with his amount of wit. It'd be nice to not be the only one who's had more than just suspicions and gathered the proof of it.

Perhaps I'll hope that when David Palmer joins us, Donald will be back in his mindset from 1972 rather than 1984. Which from what I heard might be no better in terms of anxiety, but at least he won't be held up by paranoia (or does he use 'hangup' as his term of choice? Observing from the outside makes it hard to hear such small detail, but I am glad he at least is aware of being in a different world).

And the reason why I am observing from the outside for once, rather than from the corner behind my book, is perhaps the greatest source of information I have.

Whoever placed us in this alternate timeline and controls us here has given up actively controlling Blue Oyster Cult for Lent. I find it laughable, but our suspension away from the others started on Ash Wednesday, and given how long we've been here, I have no better explanation. But I suppose the power of control is quite a lot to give up.

Do you think I sound a bit spaced out as I attempt to explain these complex thoughts in as close an order to coherent as possible? Would you be fully coherent if you were stuck in some state of being suspended outside of any reality -where I can look in on the rooms which the others experience their lapses in, yet they seem to not notice my existence? Don't discredit what you cannot understand.

What our controller did not anticipate was that giving up active control and casting us out from all thought also meant complete lapse in awareness of what we were doing while out of it. I can walk about everywhere, and nobody senses it. I can see my own bandmates with me, but we cannot speak to each other.

With a break from the insanity we often see in this reality, my bandmates chose to sleep away most of this time -as the boredom of isolation led them to. But I've been up, and searching for occupation in the still and quiet night we've been stuck in.

And I admit, I've done some things I perhaps ought not to have. Old habits die hard, I guess. Death itself couldn't wipe me out, so I suppose my troublemaking days are far from over as long as I'm here, split from standard life, with my views into it.

While I have yet to spot anyone I can attribute as our controller, I did get a strange feeling one night when I spotted an open door to a bedroom, and a tablet in which there were plenty of files, titled with band names. I could not manage to search through it, but when I attempted to touch it, the screen flashed dark, and showed signs of resetting.

The next day, I heard the Reb Beach of 1989 moaning to Gary Richrath as they attempted to occupy themselves during a lapse with an impromptu guitar jam that he had some sense he hadn't had earlier that he would be stuck in traffic on that bus much longer than he and his bandmates had anticipated, and expressed quite a bit of regret for Kip Winger losing time to continue working out the aftermath of quite the dilemma between himself and Jon Bon Jovi.

Later that same day, Jeff Pilson from 1999 looked set back weeks in progress of recovering from the meltdown of Dokken.

I think I screwed with something when I touched that tablet. Wiped out some of their plans of controlling the rest of us apparently.

_Hah-hah._

Isn't payback a bitch? Who has the control now? Even if only for a short while. Let me enjoy this sense of victory.

That one's for Neal Doughty, who Gary says he and his bandmates are figuring out how to go about rescuing. As he has also been outcasted -for months on end, and not in nearly as quiet or as peaceful a setting. I get the feeling he'll have plenty to tell me to add to my records when he recovers.

Which is why I'm glad I did not inhibit his progress with what I wiped out. I'd like to have him on my side too. And since I have not seen Gary in lapse since then, I think he'll arrive shortly.

Just don't think I meant to bring such pain on Reb and Jeff. If it means anything to them, I didn't anticipate this would happen, or mean to stall most of us in lapse. At least I'll be watching it and collecting more information we need to understand this.

Enough of these musings; however, I think I've gone on long enough. Perhaps I've gone on longer than I often would, having nothing else to do. And maybe if I were being influenced, I would go on longer (aside from a time like this, I have yet to figure out whether I am actively being influenced or not; I only know that we have been along the way). I sense if I go on much longer, any intact understanding I may have given you will suffer.

I've kept records of what I've seen. Perhaps I've helped plant them back into the mind of our controller. I have realized that some of us have found a way to make the game mutual by channeling our thoughts through our controller and derailing their initial plan for where our journeys through these split realities pass through. A good number of us have predicted going one way and fought until we changed the path, though I believe I am the only one aware of it fully. For while they might not be aware of being controlled, one with a strong enough mind can indirectly influence another, and we have plenty of strong minds concentrated in this life.

Rather than rambling on about what I've observed and documented, I think it'd be more interesting to allow you a direct view into our downtimes in lapse, when we have recollected what has happened to us, and what I've only for the first time over the last month experienced looking in from the outside.

Which leads me to ask, _wouldn't you be interested in coming along...?_ (That's another story that someday will appear; I feel it creeping upon us, though I don't see fit to fight it.) If I've lost you and you'd rather leave me here, don't feel pressured. I understand and respect your wishes.

But if I haven't thoroughly bored you, or more likely, confused you, and you still wish to read through what I have taken in and put together while exiled in the stillness of the night, come follow me to our gathering place in lapse in life as you _don't_ know it, and decide what you think...

_(To be continued)_


	2. April 15th, 2019: Just Another Night In Lapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"...You found someone who shares your belief and knowledge about alien existence here. The two of you have been thick as thieves with that since we came together here in 2017." ... "If only Eric Bloom had been out there with us; he's just been missing in action for a month. Unfortunately, Kip just had to run off too; he's got further concerns with Jon Bon Jovi to attend. And I sense Reb Beach might be on his way, which leads me to believe he might not be back for some time..."_
> 
>  
> 
> For Mike Pinder, it's just another night in lapse, but maybe for Gregg Philbin's bandmates, it's time for a long storm to have run its course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes extensive references to my works, "Who's the One Who Believes" and "Waiting for the Thaw-Out"

_4/15/19_

Night had set in, and traffic in and out of the building in the town along the Appalachian countryside had slowed to a crawl. The most action over the past hour had seen Ritchie Blackmore passing through the common room on his way between the rest of the building and the outdoors. He would only stop for a moment to say a few words of quick-wit before leaving, much like an aloof cat that passed through the family room during a gathering for the sole purpose of turning over a vase and stirring up everyone present. Aside from his visits, the night seemed rather uneventful in the open common room of couches, armchairs, and tables.

Gregg Philbin had occupied himself with a novel while sitting in an armchair in one corner along the back wall, while Ray Thomas and John Lodge chatted together on a couch along the exterior side wall.

It was a comment of seeking adventure that finally tempted Gregg to ditch his book and break the silence.

"You two still haven't seen anything of note lately?" He cast a mildly curious glance toward Ray and John.

"I'm afraid not," said Ray.

"There's many different ways you could look at it," said John. "Perhaps we do, but not anything I believe we'll see anytime soon. Eventually, though."

"John, you still have the ability to be other places when you're in lapse; why sit here all the time?"

"Because I get to be with my best mate again," said John. "As much as I like. And that is worth all the waiting for an adventure, in my mind."

Ray smiled. "We thought we'd be floating up in space on reuniting, but floating together here is good enough for us. Though I still hope we'll be given the opportunity in this world. It seems more likely here."

"We'll bring Mike with us. It will be even more wonderful than our last project together." John beamed, recalling his solo work which he'd invited Mike and Ray to contribute on. Something he often joked now was a preview of the split world he would later find himself in.

"Indeed we will." Ray returned to the question at hand. "Aside from that, at least two need to be present at all times to hold the fort down. Most of your bandmates have been strangely absent, Gregg."

"And I've been aware of that fact. Neal's been down for the count, and I'm waiting for the others to return with him."

Footsteps came down the short set of stairs leading into the lounge, and Ritchie Blackmore appeared around the fold of the wall, passing through the hallway to exit the building.

"You mean that Neal's gone missing and the others are trying to find him before he sustains permanent incapacitation from the conditions while you wait here," he hissed. "Or simply reaches death, which might just happen at the rate you've taken!"

"Look, we can't all go out there; someone has to be able to call for help if everyone else gets lost too! They chose to go out and have me stay," retorted Gregg. "I'm not wasting time fighting over who goes after him and who stays."

"Now, now, everyone," John warned, diffusing the rising tempers, not that there was much to diffuse, as Ritchie continued on his way, slinking through the doors out into the night.

"I wish I could say I knew where Eric Bloom and Allen Lanier have been," said Ray mournfully as soon as the door clicked shut. "They also seem to be strangely absent as of late, as well as the others with them."

"Hence why at least half of my mates have had to stick around, at all times." Mike Pinder entered the room by the door Ritchie had just exited and took his seat on the other side of Ray. "Usually they'd be with us."

Water droplets from melted ice crystals shined on the shoulders of his jacket, and rather amusingly, a few petals from the blossoming spring trees were caught up in his thinning hair.

"You were outside," said John. His tone was halfway between making a statement and asking a question. Stating a guess, and seeking validation of it.

"Indeed I was. Stargazing," said Mike. "It's quite nice, you know. I had Kip Winger out there with me, and I must say, I've come to enjoy his company here with all the interests he's got in common. I don't always understand some of the ways he gets to playing around, but in all seriousness, he's rather wise for a lad his age."

"You found someone who shares your belief and knowledge about alien existence here," said John affectionately. "The two of you have been thick as thieves with that since we came together here in 2017."

It was true. Kip could also talk to Mike about classical music theory in ways that didn't apply to his work and bandmates in Winger. 'Eras apart and two of a kind', as Eric Bloom had joked with them outside one night when he'd joined for the extra-terrestrial discussion. They'd all decided he was the middle ground between them, both in the peak time of his work and age.

"If only Eric Bloom had been out there with us; he's just been missing in action for a month. Unfortunately, Kip just had to run off too; he's got further concerns with Jon Bon Jovi to attend. And I sense Reb Beach might be on his way, which leads me to believe he might not be back for some time."

As if on Mike's cue, exterior doors in the stairwell opened, and through the interior door, Don Dokken audibly groaned something about how 'that was an adventure.'

"Oh dear," sighed Gregg quietly. Complaints of the weather were coming fast, and he knew it. Outside, it was only moderately cold for the setting, and warm compared to what he was accustomed to in Illinois. However, to the perspective of anyone who had become accustomed to Southern California climate, the story was quite different. 

Gregg understood their complaints were fair, but after having been repeatedly pulled back to a frigid setting in Colorado with his bandmates since September, said complaints grated him at times.

John Lodge motioned to one of the unoccupied couches along the back wall of the common room, which was against a steam radiator. It hadn't pumped the slightest bit of heat since three weeks prior, despite the cold nights, but at least there was something to be said for the comfort of seeing it there. In came Don Dokken, Jeff Pilson, and Reb Beach, shaking off umbrellas from cold precipitation.

"It's near 70 degrees during the daytime here, but of course, it has to go under 40 at night. It'd be too comfortable and simple if it stayed up," grumbled Don, huddling on the couch. "And freezing rain is just ridiculous."

"At least it's only a few crystals mixed in," Jeff tried. "It's mostly water."

"It's _April."_

"I recommend getting used to it," warned Mike, tossing them towels from a laundry basket between the couches. "It's been coming down the last two nights and it's supposed to be much heavier for three days past tonight."

Jeff shook his head and sat down at a table with nothing to say on the matter. He had other sources of upset much stronger than the rain.

Reb also took to the couch, but sat on the furthest end, opposite Don, and held himself in the posture of someone anticipating an attack.

Gregg raised his eyebrows. "Damn, Mick's still off in hiding and you all are still stuck in your slump from last month?" 

Don snorted. "Considering where you've been for months on end, and where your bandmates still are, you're one to talk. Particularly your keyboard player-"

Gregg held his hands up and leaned back in his seat with surrender.

"I rest my case," Don muttered, followed by something indecipherable about everyone having to judge each other.

Turning to Mike, Gregg tried to quickly shift his focus away from Don and to look as unimposing as possible, lest he stir up any more tension.

"Well, you guessed right."

"About what, mate?" Mike moved across the room to sit next to Gregg.

Gregg surreptitiously motioned to Reb, not to look threatening when the subject appeared more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

"You guessed they were on the way. It's not the first time; I've all but come to trust your judgements more than my own over the last few months. I don't know, at first they seem right, and then they just fall off, and I'm stuck here again."

"Interesting." Mike gazed up toward the ceiling, then over to Ray.

Ray smiled back knowingly. _'Go ahead',_ his eyes seemed to say.

Gregg raised his eyebrows at both of them.

Mike prompted. "Well, what are your judgements, mate?"

"Of what?"

"When do _you_ think Neal will come back?"

"When will he-? After all this time, I don't know. Any day now, or never at all, I think sometimes at this point. It feels it's hardly been an hour when we're there, but here-"

"Ah, there's the matter, mate," Ray chimed in from across the room.

"How so?"

"I've had my own journey in this world, and I'd rather wait to tell you about it until you've made it through your first," said Mike. "But you'll find that here, there are many little things that become quite large enough to cloud your mind and trap you for quite some time."

"Well, I know you've met the others before me, and there are plenty of little things-"

"Indeed, and I'm sure they've had to deal with a few over the past few months too. You mustn't let their squabbling stand in the way of your thoughts though, mate. You have got to keep cool and keep pushing against the obstacles toward what you know you want -and soon enough, more will work in your favor and you'll put yourself back on track and get there fast enough. Maybe you'll even be the one to help them along."

Don sat up enough to cast a sideways glance at Mike.

_I would think you were dreaming too hard and full of it, if I hadn't noticed the same thing myself. Not as simple as you'd like to make it out to be though. Too bad you might as well not waste your time explaining it when others will jump to tell you you're nuts before hearing it._

However, his thoughts went unspoken. Getting stepped on for the cynical thoughts running through his head was not on his list of desires, and was more than he felt he had the patience for.

Too bad keeping quiet didn't allow him to escape a bit of prodding over it anyway.

"Don, last summer you mentioned something of the sort; do tell me you've been able to gain some headway."

"I really haven't, Mike."

"Have you tried?"

"I wish I could say I did, but the world as just about beaten the care right out of me." _Forget it; you can't win sometimes. Or you can, but the hoops to jump through aren't worth the trouble._

"I used to think I'd never say it, but me too," Reb said, and a second later, spurted to clarify himself.

"Not the trying. I am trying. I mean having the care beaten out, in some ways."

"If it makes you feel any better, Jeff felt the same way two weeks ago," Don offered. "You two can relate, but it's nothing new to me."

"Aw, mate." John left the couch and joined Jeff at the table. Just as Mike had with Eric and Kip, he too had developed his own bond over eras since 2017, particularly with Jeff. 

"I suppose it's not anything I can help you with while we're here?"

"Look, I think we're getting somewhere," said Jeff. "Honestly. Now, not as fast as I thought we were a week ago; something is off -you guys have said it, yeah, yeah, I agree. But I don't think it's gonna be too bad. We're just..." Struggle crept into his tone. "We're a bit tired, and most of us are pretty emotional. I've had a few nightmares lately; Reb's barely had a chance to start getting his footing... But we'll survive, right?"

"We've been surviving, it hasn't been friendly to the genre lately, so there's not much else we can do -or much worse we can get." Reb shrugged listlessly. "I've given up trying to decide whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. I keep hanging on because I just don't want fucking _Metallica_ to win every bit of this shit they started."

Gregg did a double-take at Reb's sudden surge of anger, but didn't comment. He had no intention to rile him further, and had already learned the hard way what encouraging a rant led to.

"Okay, you know what?" Jeff pointed at Reb, and for a split second, all the missing life seemed to have sprung back into him. "If we're stuck in a slump for awhile, so be it. But we're gonna do this. You bet, when we get going again, we're gonna show everyone we're not finished here. Whether it's sooner or later, we will, and yeah, it still sucks now, but we're on our way back. So hang tight with me."

"Ahh, I love your optimism, mate. It's so endearing."

Jeff smiled weakly as John Lodge hugged him, and leaned in as his sudden burst of animation left him drained of the remaining energy he had.

"You've helped me keep it going with being stuck this long, John. Everything you've told me from your adventure. I promise, I'll keep it going as long as I can for Reb."

"I'm sure he'll do plenty for you in return."

"If nothing else, I'll be there for him, because so far, he's been there for me -if there's one good sign."

 _"There_ you go," encouraged John. "Start with that and you'll make a plenty strong comeback to show them."

Gregg suddenly sprang up from the sofa and thew on his coat so aggressively, it looked as if he was trying to rip the sleeves off from the inside.

Ray startled and looked up at him incredulously. "What the hell's with you, mate?" 

"I have to go," said Gregg. "I know I've said it just about a hundred times, but it feels different this time. This time, they've got him! They've got him, and the next time you see any of us, he'll be here too!"

"Good luck, Gregg!" called out John with great enthusiasm.

Ray and Mike ran to the door to see him off.

"Focus on the most important object in your mind." Ray shared a blissful expression with Mike as they recalled their encounters with Timothy Leary. "Remember, 'thinking is the best way to travel'!"

Mike didn't resist singing the first couple of lines of the song, until Gregg was out of sight and had undoubtedly escaped from lapse.

"It's the most determined I've seen him," said Ray proudly as they returned inside without Gregg. "I have the best of feelings for him; I hope all is the same for his mates."

"Before asking whether anyone's coming back and when, I just hope that Neal's okay." Sympathy and concern tinged Reb's eyes as he looked about, trying to shake off the possible bad outcomes, and thoughts of a much darker situation he still felt all too well.

"It's after 2:00 in the morning now," noted Jeff, visibly fighting to hold his head up and keep his eyes open. "Are we all in for the night?"

"I believe so," said John. "If Ritchie isn't staying out, he knows well enough the latest he ought to return and have someone up for him. Donald Fagen might be on one of his night flights for a few more hours, but the rest of us are likely in by now -or will be shortly."

"I'll probably wake up from a nightmare in two hours in anyway, so I'll be up to let him in if he's locked out." Jeff pulled a blanket from his night pack and camped himself out under the table he'd been sitting at, fort-style, crashing with exhaustion. The walk to a bedroom was far too long for him tonight.

John looked him over sadly, seeing firsthand the symptoms of the battle he was facing.

"Get what rest you can have for yourself, mate," he whispered softly before retreating back to the couch. "If everyone else goes up to bed, I can stay with him."

"I'll stay here," Reb volunteered. "I can fall asleep just about anywhere, so it's no problem."

The door in the stairwell opened again, and Ritchie made his return for the night, surreptitiously rubbing his upper arms to regain warmth after exposure to the icy rainstorm.

Ray sighed before regarding him once more. "Are you on your own, or do you have others-?"

"No, I'm here on my own, and I'm not planning to join the talk leading to nothing," said Ritchie as cold as the air he'd let blow in with him. "I see Philbin has gone on another trip to nowhere?"

"He says the others have got Neal this time," John piped up.

"Well, that will be interesting to see," offered Ritchie, standing to slink out into the rest of the building, either to their bedroom or to sneak around as he often did when he'd had enough of everyone for the night. Which depending on who was or wasn't there could be quite quick.

Don Dokken waited until Ritchie was gone before he muttered quietly, as if wanting to share his thought and hide it from the world and its judgement all at the same time.

"With the way things have been going, if Neal comes back this time, maybe we'll actually have a reason to believe any of us are getting somewhere."

In the darkened stillness of the night, isolated from the gathering, Allen Lanier heaved a sigh.

_Oh, the great help you could be in this if one could break down the walls you've surrounded yourself with, Don. Though sadly, I entirely understand how they came to be._

_For now, we start as you say it. We wait for Doughty. I'll be returning in a mere week._

_We're not going far now, but our time will come..._


	3. April 17th, 2019: I Believe Our Time is Gonna Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One long-lost bandmate makes a return after seven long months... But for everyone else, two days has been enough to take being stuck in lapse from bad to worse. Boredom and tempers never mix well, particularly when controversial topics dominate the late-night banter. Has Neal Doughty's extended sophomore experience given him a new understanding of the split world and a vantage point on a battle lurking in the distance of his return?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued references to "Who's the One Who Believes", "Waiting for the Thaw Out", and a scrapped Moody Blues work.
> 
> New references to "Out With a Bang, Then With a Whimper", and "When the Demon Does Not Leave the Door"

_4/17/19_

"Aww, Neal! Come on!" Kevin Cronin's distinctive whiny voice drifted into the room, all the way from outside.

"Now, that might be exaggerating, Neal," piped Gary Richrath. "We were not fighting in the car the whole way; oh no we weren't!"

"Oh yes, you two were!"

"Nuh-uh!"

"If either of you think I'm gonna do that back and forth gibberish 'nuh-uh-yah-huh' with you two like I'm four years old, think again. But you were."

"Alright, all of you guys, that's enough!" Poor Alan Gratzer, playing mediator after hours of driving. "Maybe you did fight, or maybe you didn't, but we don't need to fight now."

Inside the common lounge, Ritchie Blackmore bristled at the exchange. Tonight, with two of his own bandmates present, he'd chosen to be rather social for himself. His aloof cat impression had dropped to favor one of a guard dog -perhaps an uncommon solid black German Shepherd -standing in the corner to growl at and intimidate those he found less tolerable. Upon hearing REO Speedwagon in the outer hallway, he lay back his ears, hunched his spine, and raised his hackles.

"I hear we've got company."

"How's that different from anytime here?" asked Paicey. "Practically no one gets a moment alone..."

"The nature of it," Ritchie spat. "That Cronin makes Gillan look and sound like a saint, and plays the insufferable goody-goody to get away with it all. Never in my life-"

Paicey sighed and leaned back in his seat, bracing himself on the table edge. "Be still my heart." _He openly says something nice about Ian without being asked... even if at the expense of another._

"Ritchie, be kind. His bandmates are here too," said Jon, "and Gary is still protective of them. We don't want a fight with them."

"You mean that _you_ don't. What if I do?"

Jon visibly strained to take a deep breath without sighing audibly and held his hands up. He looked ready to get up from the table and attempt reasoning with Ritchie, but Paicey tapped his arm down and shook his head.

"Leave him be; he'll be more combative if you try to stop him," he pleaded in a whisper. "Remember last year?"

Shaking his head, Jon left the topic behind. He really didn't want to remember reliving Ritchie blowing up the stage at Cal Jam. Once before the split had been enough, and the second had been insult to injury when they still hadn't been able to stop it.

"At least he's honest about it," said Ray innocently.

The door opened, and all five members of 1972 era REO Speedwagon slipped inside.

Neal tucked himself behind all the others out of sight, but it didn't stop a joking round of claps from sounding off at him.

"Welcome back Neal." John Lodge was less sardonic, greeting the keyboardist with a smile and a hug, at which Neal looked plenty taken aback before being bombarded by the snide comments.

"Long time, no see, Neal." 

Paicey was subtle. Ritchie was not.

"I questioned if your bandmates weren't attempting to ensure we'd never see you again. One in particular."

Jon shot Ritchie an unusually harsh sidelong glance.

"No, I was thinking all the crap going on here scared you off for good," Don Dokken added. "Nice to see it didn't."

"Thanks a lot. I REALLY appreciate it," Neal deadpanned before settling on the couch. "Don't blame my guys for the time I was out. I thought it was only for one night. Actually, if you want to give them a hard time, how about you ask them why they didn't tell me how long that actually was until the last two hours of the ride back here? They didn't tell me either, I figured it out when I realized the trees were blooming, and the last time I saw them, they had late summer leaves."

Kevin pouted. "You were hypothermic; we didn't want you to go into shock, and you're gonna complain about that?"

"We actually all just wanted you to pitch a fit, Trout," joked Gary, playfully nudging him and poking at his nickname.

"Yeah, come on," said Alan. "You're the genius of us; we knew you could figure it out."

"I wasn't in shock before we left; you could have told me before we got in the car. But that's okay; I guess being a little delirious with cabin fever -after literally spending months in a cabin -might justify not thinking entirely right. I guess for being half-frozen, it didn't get to my brain."

Ritchie actually cracked a smile.

Alan gasped dramatically. "Oh, Neal, you are gonna get it from me later."

"Yeah, I should know it with the years we spent in the dorm together. Never ends with you."

"That's an exaggeration, Trout." Alan sank down on the couch next to Neal with a massive yawn. "See, it'll end for a bit when I go to sleep. That drive..."

"You don't want to go upstairs?" Gregg hesitantly sat down on the other side of Neal, and Gary and Kevin piled in between Alan and Neal.

"I will later. Maybe. It's a long walk."

"No worries," said Ray. "He'll hardly be the only one to have had a nap in here."

Just then, Jeff Pilson jostled out of a sound sleep curled up in an armchair in a violent fit of sneezing.

"Bless your little soul," John Lodge murmured sadly from behind the guitar in his lap. "That was quite heartfelt."

Don groaned. "With all the pollen starting, I was hoping that was only gonna be allergies when he started feeling funny yesterday."

"We were both hoping, even though we knew what it was," Jeff rasped through sniffling. 

"Yeah, we did. But we're definitely gonna get sick while we're stuck here. Because I'm feeling it, and I get sick at the drop of a hat."

"That's why I'm over here," said Reb, from where he was situated at the table next to Ian Paice, who seemed safe enough of who else was present.

"And we told you to keep back from us anyway, because we're trying to make sure you won't."

"Well, if he doesn't, maybe I'll end up joining the party with you guys. Because I just got back from spending seven months freezing and buried in a snowbank, and forget being sick, don't ask how I got out alive. That's getting off easy. At least I'll have an excuse to sleep for a couple days straight and not have anyone try to bother me unless I ask."

Don raised his eyebrows and pointed at Neal.

"You have a point. Couldn't have called that silver lining any better myself. Maybe we'll all get real sick in our camp and George will leave us alone."

Reb sat up and clapped his hands together. "Hey, that's it! Add Metallica to that, and we got a deal -you guys can give me whatever it is. I want it, and I don't care how bad."

"It really would be cool if we could start getting better just like that, wouldn't it?" Jeff pushed himself back up straight, resigning to being awake again.

"Something's missing since I was here last," realized Gregg, as he looked over to the sofa with Don, Jeff, and John, and the adjacent armchair Ray was in. "Where'd Mike go?"

"Called away." Ray's usually cheerful face was crestfallen. "I don't think it's anything important yet, but I have concerns as to what we might be reliving if he's not back soon enough."

Jeff searched his pockets for tissues, resigned to sniffing loudly when he couldn't find any, and looked on at Ray with confusion for one second, when his thoughts cleared behind his sinuses and his face fell.

"Oh no..."

"No, no; don't you worry yourself with that. We'll get through it," Ray assured. "We've been through worse."

John, who had been fingerpicking his guitar, had absentmindedly begun to sing softly, mixing different lines from different verses and skipping sections rather than singing in order.

_"Why am I so nervous? Please explain to me, why I can't sleep. I close my eyes to shelter, in the dark I try and hide..._

Don smirked as he saw Jeff's eyelids beginning to droop -the one thing that hadn't changed about him over the years was how quick he crashed when he did. 

Alan reached into his backpack and tossed Neal a blanket, suspecting and hoping he would be taken by the tune too. To his motion, Neal cast his former college roommate a sigh and eye-roll, but tossed the blanket over his chest and slumped down on the couch.

_"...If you leave me on my own I'm worried I could lose my way..."_

The tune was soothing enough to make Jeff and Neal to drift off and get some proper rest, but one look across the room snapped Jeff out of his zone as he saw Reb startle and grow visibly uneasy. It might have been okay, especially as Jon Lord and Paicey took notice and tried to bring up an unrelated conversation to distract him, but Kevin Cronin noticed it too and he couldn't keep quiet.

"Hey Reb, you're looking a little -are you okay?" It was a seemingly harmless question that could be entirely detrimental when asked with the wrong timing.

_"...In my mind, confusion, I see you everywhere, but we don't speak. I try so hard to touch you, but you're always out of reach-"_

"Kevin, leave it," warned Gregg, but Reb visibly started tearing up as soon as the words were out and the damage was already done. John snapped out of his stone, put the guitar down and exchanged alarmed looks with Ray, and now Jeff was wide awake again.

"Just -I don't know, bear with us," said Jeff, mostly addressing Kevin, who had been away for four solid weeks and didn't know the same things Gregg did. "We've been a little emotional and high-strung lately, but we'll be fine. Sooner or later, we'll start getting better over here."

"I'm fine," Reb insisted, looking away as he tried to keep his composure from slipping any further. "I just started thinking too much. Honest, I'm-"

"What, do you wanna talk about it?" Kevin slid forward in his seat, but Reb shook his head. "Right here. Why not?"

Gary got up quietly and whispered something to Reb about taking a walk around the hall. Reb didn't hesitate to follow him out.

Jeff sneezed again, and this time he had to start sniffling immediately, and the more he did, the more dirty looks Ritchie shot his way.

Paicey leaned over the back of his chair to look down the hallway and cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Gary, if you would please go up in the bedroom and bring back the tissue box!"

Jeff tried to lean forward to get up. "I can get-"

"Stay," ordered Don, pushing him back down. "They're already up. And you're not getting enough rest as it is."

Ritchie slunk out anyway.

"Oh boy," sighed Gregg. "He's in rare form tonight."

"Sorry," said Jeff. "I get why that starts getting annoying."

Alan waved him off. "Not nearly as annoying as being stuck for months. Come on, now we're fine and you're still -has anything changed? You're not bothering us. And being sick can't be doing too many favors with being stuck either-"

"Except maybe we'll be too feverish to have our normal nightmares and we might actually get some sleep and feel a little better all around. Maybe that'll change things -you know, we might just make this work after all." Jeff started to look to Reb, but on remembering he had left, turned to Don instead to send encouragement to the last sliver of hope his singer had left.

"Everyone's sick in the band; that's the problem alright. Either that or they're having a nervous breakdown -of course we're stuck. Jeff's right, Neal, you had the right idea earlier. I wanna go to bed. I don't feel good," Don finally complained. "Except it's so far away. Next time I get up, I'm up for the night though."

The door separating the stairwell and outer exit cracked open, and stayed ajar as whoever was entering paused there. 

"Oh pleas'th," came a lisping, nasally groan, muffled between weak coughing. "You too now? Give me a fucking break."

Donald Fagen emerged through the doorway, still shivering, snuffling with congestion and clutching a folded stack of napkins in fingers reddened with frost-nip just under the flap of his coat. His other hand struggled to reach behind himself and find the loose end of his scarf that the wind had pulled loose.

"Give _me_ a break," retorted Neal, "not only is everyone sick, but that's _two_ keyboard players near-frozen."

"Sorry to tell you, Neal, but that's not new," warned Jon.

"Yeah, I wish..." Donald looked less than thrilled to be the center of conversation.

"Since he got here in the last month you've been gone-"

"The last month I've been gone," Neal repeated. "I can believe that, and I bet I've missed plenty more across all seven."

"It wasn't anything you wanted to be part of by what I was here for; let me put it that way." Kevin looked at Donald and did a double-take. "Aw man, you look like death warmed over. Or I should probably say 'frosted' over -it's even worse than before I left. Can I get you anything?"

"If it'sth not sleep without passing out one way or another, no." Donald's voice was terse and rigid, but it sounded fragile underneath the rasp of sickness, with some deeply-guarded vulnerability. His eyes were rimmed with dark circles from lack of sleep and sunken in so much that he looked like a raccoon.

"Also..." Seeing that Gary was out of the room, he paused to curl his upper lip into a sneer that would have been deadly, had he not looked so disinterested. "...save your show, Cronin. I know better than what you're leading me onto. I've already seen enough major _douches_ tonight. I'd hate to have to say I'd seen another."

Before Kevin could respond, Ray, Jeff, Jon Lord and John Lodge, Paicey, and Gregg all looked at him with wide eyes fingers to their lips, and subtle head-shakes all so full of 'no!' that he sank back in his spot on the couch between Gregg and Alan to sulk.

"Guys, leave him alone. Learn to take a hint from someone." Don Dokken motioned to an empty chair in the corner between the one he sat on and the other sofa where Jeff was with John and Ray.

"Quietest part of the room if you want to get fussed at as little as possible," he whispered low enough that Ritchie, Reb, and the REO Speedwagon crowd wouldn't hear it and get unnerved. "And we're already sick, so we're not worried about that."

Donald shuddered as he made his way over and awkwardly draped his hunched body across the chair, brought on by the minimal trust he'd gained over a month for Don not to bother him, and a vague familiarity to his rounded facial features and cynical attitude. Despite his willing approach, he still made paranoid glances about the room from his seat and stiffly guarded his stack of napkins spread on the hem of his coat to dry with his arms. Enough darkness held in his expression to threaten anyone who dared try sneaking a look at them.

Uneasy silence barely had a chance to fall over, just before Jeff had another fit of sneezes, and this time, sniffing everything back wasn't going to cut it. Luckily, Gary and Reb emerged at the short set of steps down into the common room just as it happened.

"Bless you!" shouted Gary, tossing the tissue box to Jeff and setting an unpackaged roll of toilet paper down on the coffee table by the couch for good measure. "You're all set. Now stop that. Stop that right now!"

Jeff giggled underneath a tissue as a sneeze faded midway at Gary's shout, and Gary came over and affectionately tousled his hair.

"Once you're better from this, no more getting sick! You and Reb need to get rolling."

"You're gonna get sick from me," warned Jeff.

"Aww, be quiet. I'm more at risk with Trout than you."

"Oh, sure, Richrath..." Neal muttered sleepily from beside him. His eyes were glazed over and he had the awake-in-a-dream look one had when they were hours from becoming ill.

"Just you wait," Gary continued. "It took us seven months, but we made it, and you're already fighting it -the time is gonna come, and we're gonna have a party in here once everyone else gets better and back in track again-"

The stairwell door opened again, and this time, it was Mike Pinder. John and Ray's faces lit up like Christmas trees.

"Mike!" Ray jumped up from the couch and embraced his best mate. "Are we ever grateful to see you!"

"You're back!" John set his guitar down beside the couch and the nervousness faded from him right before everyone's eyes.

"You two act like I've been gone for months too when I've only been gone for a day," Mike scolded. "Come off it. I'm just thankful to have got gone through it with Graeme again. Besides, Justin would have had kittens if he'd had to deal with Patrick."

"And I certainly don't look forward to when we might," Ray sighed. "Though I'm sure we will."

_You're wise to be on guard for that, Ray,_ thought Allen Lanier from his darkened vantage point.

"That's not to complain, if anyone is wondering," Ray assured. "Of the potential cons to being here, we've got it pretty good."

"Quite good indeed," said Ritchie, coming back down into the room, "considering how many of us -including you -couldn't be sitting here together if we were our counterparts in life as most know it to be."

Jon sighed, but didn't bother to quiet Ritchie this time. 

"Hey. _Hey!"_ Kevin slapped the couch beside himself next to Gary. "Pipe down over there!"

"Kevin, please don't start," warned Neal. "Let people talk about what they want. Hell, I think I've seen some miracles here now, considering I used to think coming up alive after being frozen for extended time periods only happened in science fiction."

"That really was something, wasn't it?" pondered Jeff. "Don?"

"Alright, every time this conversation comes up here, someone makes a problem of it. So until I have reason to believe everyone is onboard to listen to each other like Neal suggested and not start unrelated arguments, don't even ask me," said Don. "Because lately more than ever, I've had enough of trying to reason with people you can't."

"I understand," Jeff murmured sadly, wilting beside him. With his puffy lower eyelids, dark circles, glazed eyes, and slightly opened mouth due to congestion, he looked absolutely pitiful.

"Cronin, not everyone here is as lucky as you," said Ritchie. "You still continue to put yourself above Richrath when he's not deserving of it like some I've known over the years. You've stomped about his work and left a trail of lies to cover it-"

"Okay, I didn't say that; _you_ did," Gary cut in. "Kevin's like my little brother."

"I'd bet Fagen would be more grateful if he had what you have here, Cronin."

Without a word, Donald gingerly tucked his stack of napkins back up inside his coat like they were of some precious value and left through the door into the stairwell exit. 

"Ritchie," Jon hissed as Ritchie settled next to him at the table. "I don't appreciate this from you either!"

"At least he's just as you knew him," Paicey tried, wincing as he looked on. Seeing Reb shrink back in his chair, he shifted his own chair closer to him as reassurance. 

"That's quite enough. There's more to this conversation that we don't understand well enough. Kip Winger is alive and well in both worlds, yet he still can't be with Reb here, just to start, and we're all far too high strung and tired, and it's far too late, so we're _all_ dropping that discussion now before we end up with mass upset," scolded Mike. "And woe betide _anyone_ in this room who might attempt to torment Fagen with the thought tonight. He's already stricken with enough."

"Perhaps I can get him to come back," Ray offered. He had enough background knowledge from the early days of The Moody Blues to provide some conversatio about jazz, and had succeeded in getting Donald to come back in on two other particularly bad nights. "Neal, care to join me on the stoop? The two of you haven't met."

"I don't know about that, Ray. He might not like it out there," warned Gary. "It's still raining."

"Rain is one thing. Is that rain still frozen?" asked Neal.

"A little bit, but it's not accumulating-"

" _Hell_ no. I'm not going out there if there's any form of ice, and I can meet him later. That's it."

Ray went out without argument, but Kevin cast Neal a _look._

"I'll still have plenty to say tomorrow. But no one's going to make me go outside in that." Neal sank down further under his blanket next to Gary, who protectively curled his arm around him.

_No, don't! Doughty, can you hear me? It's Lanier! Take it back while you can!_

"And care to explain what you're going to do if you're doomed to end up back outside in it whether you like it or not?" questioned Ritchie.

"If I was going to be put outside in the cold again, I just have the strangest feeling that I would have already been out there. Being out there is his problem at the moment, not mine."

_You make a fair point, Neal, though it only applies some of the time. Hopefully, this once, you've saved yourself, and to that, Ritchie deserves some credit. Though I don't think he intended to help you either. You'd be wise to keep your guard up._

Ray came back inside with Donald, once again just as rigid as he'd been the first time he arrived. But he slunk back to his corner next to Don Dokken, this time without prompting.

"Change your mind?" asked Ritchie. 

"I've seen _one_ less major douche in this room tonight than I have on the streets, so I'll take my chances while I still have the nerve." Donald was audibly forcing his voice low to hide how raspy it was with congestion and to keep from losing his threatening edge.

"Pity I don't find your music a damn worthwhile listening to," Ritchie snarled, leaning toward him.

"Is it more a blessing or a pity that I could easily overlook the blues influences there are in some of yours and say the same for you?" Donald sneered. He tossed his hands up to his sides momentarily before pseudo-casually folding them over his chest. His coat hid well how tightly they were guarding his body rather than feigning careless arrogance.

Unfortunately, despite passing in appearance, Ritchie knew just how Donald constructed his walls. They were much like his own, and tonight, in his boredom, he'd chosen Donald as his target to pursue relentlessly.

He raised his eyebrows at Donald, gears turning within him.

_I don't know whether to be more alarmed as to what those two would be capable of doing to each other in a fight, or intrigued by the idea... Should I say the latter, or will they back off? It's a shame they can't work together; I know Ritchie has a grasp on this._

Gary raised his eyebrows and looked wildly between both of them, and Reb looked equally as alarmed.

Two of their favorite influences on opposite ends of the musical spectrum were positioned to face off in a cat fight right in front of them!

After too much thrown from other bands, Reb was too intimidated to voice his thoughts. However, Gary was not, and he yelled out. 

_"Hey!"_

Alan was leaning all the way forward in his seat, nearly falling out of it and ready to lunge between any physical altercation. "Guys, _no more!"_

Neal bailed from the couch and moved himself and his blanket out of the line of fire and to the table with Paicey, Jon, and Reb.

Donald smirked and gave a pathetic attempt at a laugh. It seemed his condescending mind wanted to, but his heart still wasn't in it from where he sat on his own in the corner.

"No more!"

Ritchie then closed his eyes and held up a finger with a knowing look. He scraped back his chair and stalked out into the rest of the building.

Neal shook his head and planted his face into his palm in the slowest, smoothest motion possible. It couldn't have looked any more dramatic if he'd tried.

"Don't ask me what the fuck that was all about," Donald muttered, letting his guard slide some. "Don't tell me either; I have enough nightmares as is."

Reb looked down the hall nervously. "I didn't like the look of that."

"You shouldn't," agreed Neal, still with his head down. "I don't need to know him that well to know he's about to do something. That wasn't a surrender."

"Yeah, now that you mention it, I got a bad feeling myself," said Gary, sitting up on the couch and snaking an arm out protectively around Kevin. "Uh-oh..."

"Ohhhh, dear..." This time, Paicey shifted forward in his seat and looked down the hall as Reb had. He appeared to be questioning if tracking Ritchie down and trying to stopping him, for what it was worth, was a good idea this once.

"You know, maybe those of us who aren't ill should just go outside to cool off. Let's forget about this argument in here, take a walk on the hills, and enjoy the blooming trees in the night light," suggested Mike. "They can look nice covered with rain drops."

Donald pointedly scooted his chair further back, closing the small gap between it and the wall.

"They do look nice," tried Don. "But most of us have already seen enough of them. It's been like that outside for a week straight."

_You might as well go on your own accord, Mike, and even enjoy a psychedelic trip with Ray while you're at it. All of you are going to be out there to cool off whether you like it or not. I can see Ritchie in the elevator. Sixth floor. Take a look at the alarm panel on the inner wall of the room with you. It'll say there's trouble in the system there. And all of you might want to cover your ears..._

"Oh, I smell smoke." Alan stood up uneasily. "We'd better get outside, because-"

"AAHHH!" Kevin yelped and jumped a foot off the couch, nearly knocking Gary down on the floor with him as the fire alarm panel gave three loud beeps of warning. 

Then all hell broke loose as the high-pitched screech of smoke detectors and the low, uneven wail of old fire horns with faulty wiring filled the halls in continuous tone.

Repulsed by the awful, attacking cacophony, Donald shot from the corner back outside into the night before everyone else had a chance to react.

"God _damn it!"_ Neal slammed his fists on the table and jumped up so fast that his chair fell back.

Don Dokken, though unfazed by the alarm after many encounters with it, did a double-take at Neal and his outburst. 

"And I thought _you_ were high strung lately," he remarked, turning to Reb, who was visibly shaken by the sudden sound, but no worse for wear. Unlike Neal, this was not his first rodeo with the fire alarm either.

"You, you, and _you especially_ need to put on your coats and umbrellas. _Before_ going outside!" Alan pointed at Don, Reb, and rather forcefully at Jeff while righting Neal's chair with his other hand. He then started to dig in his overnight backpack for weather gear. "We don't know how long we'll be out there, and if you guys are gonna be sick, that's fine without making it worse. Hey, Neal I have your-"

But Neal had already sprinted outside ahead of them. With only a thin blanket's protection around his shoulders, no further inhibitions to leaving shelter, and far more important things on his mind than his impending fever or the frozen rain falling from the sky.


	4. April 17th continued: Night by Night (Snide Keyboardist's Unite!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"This ...this here is NOT a coincidence. To say the least that I COULD say!"_ Two keyboard players stranded in the night break through and find common ground on their suspicions while a third looks on. Surely someone else is out there with more to decode the mystery of the split world. Now it's for certain the time will come, but until then, what else is there to do than live night by night?

There were a lot of things Neal Doughty hadn't planned on experiencing in his lifetime, and that included his life in the standard world, which still continued as far as he was aware of.

He hadn't expected his self-trained piano playing hobby would place him in a full-time rock band and lead to abandoning a five year engineering degree just a month before graduation. He hadn't expected to not only be a founder of the band, but the only original member left decades later. He hadn't expected to come home from one tour to find a letter announcing an abrupt divorce from his wife, or the nervous breakdown his bandmates helped him through after, or to later lose one of those bandmates to alcoholism.

He hadn't even known it would be possible to end up in some world split off from standard reality, so he naturally hadn't expected that. Waking up in the split world to the night of his excruciating panic attack at Bruce Hall's house. Finding Gary Richrath with him, alive and healthy -albeit still drunk as he would have been at night back in the days when his demons were just starting to rise. Then finding himself in his first lapse with other musicians he'd heard of but never met were all unexpected and bizarre events for him. All of those encounters were still bizarre enough, even if they were tame relative to what he'd seen now.

Luckily, while Neal had a tendency to stick with the tried and true on his own out of habit, he wasn't opposed to rolling with the changes, whether by suggestion or when there was no other choice. And he'd had plenty of practice before the split.

So even though he hadn't planned on going outside in freezing rain, once he got over the initial shock of anger driven by the agitation from the alarms, it didn't take Neal long to take the change thrown to his expectations tonight and roll with it.

When he crashed through the doors of the building and emerged at the top of the concrete steps leading up the small hill down to the stoop, he spotted Donald Fagen sprinting across the street through a gap in a line of four cars just long enough to get through comfortably. Not seeing any oncoming traffic beyond the last car, and wanting to get across before more came, Neal ran after, hot on his trail.

He'd already come up with a number of things he wanted to discuss with Donald, mostly from what he'd observed in the short time since making his return. And while he hadn't planned on asking them tonight, as he suspected it would make for a longer than average introduction that might not be welcomed, if they were going to be stuck outside, what better way to pass the time?

"Neal?! _...NEAL?!"_

First Alan was calling for him from the top of the steps, and naturally, Kevin joined a second later. Neal turned his head to see everyone else beginning to exit the building in mass. But then he turned back around and kept running to keep up as he saw Donald slowing to a swift, uneasy stride crossing the soggy grass field. He was making his way toward a back wall consisting of a steep hillside to the left and straight ahead, a small woodland up the hill and to the right, and an athletic compound running immediately along the right of the field and extending into the woods.

When Donald stopped to stand in the shadows between two buildings and a fenced-off practice field rather than continuing toward the woods, Neal slowed his run to a hurried walk. Or really, whatever was the best term for the fastest pace he could keep while keeping one foot on the ground at all stages of his stride. The gait it gave him looked stupid, and he knew it, but it was one he chose for function over form. He didn't want to break his inertia by slowing down too much, nor did he want to tire out too soon by pushing his full speed. Both would make it harder to catch up if Donald took off running again, which would be solely from him rather than from the alarm this time. He was trying to look as little threatening as possible on his approach. There was a difference between catching up to someone and chasing them depending on how one looked at it; Neal didn't intend the latter. And he REALLY didn't want to have to give it up if Donald did run into the woods.

Not that Neal suspected there was anything truly dangerous in the small woodland to be scared of -at least not until the rainstorm started to throw down with lightening. He'd just had more than enough excitement. It was too soon to test his fortune with needing to be rescued, and he was already coming to terms with possibly having yet _another_ change to his expectations tonight.

However, Donald didn't seemed inclined to take off, even as Neal slowed down to a walk once he was roughly fifty feet away. He looked on toward him, arms crossed, leaning on one leg with resignation. His expression was hard to read between the distance, the dark circles, and his heavy eyebrows. Neal would have considered it a baleful glare, but there was something leaning toward curiosity present too, and maybe something else that wanted to put him to a challenge.

"You know, I'd say you're pretty persisth'ent," Donald finally spoke, his lisp extra pronounced from being winded. "And you've got a lot of nerve. Most'of the others don't even try to catch up to me once I cross'the street. But I suppose _you_ wouldn't know what to expect."

"Yeah, when I've been away longer than you've been here. I suspected you weren't really running from me at first," said Neal. "Once you'd seen me, sure you could have been. You stopped here, so I figured getting rid of me wasn't so important to you. Now, you _could_ have gotten me to turn back if you'd run into the woods. I'll give you an out if you want it."

"Given the choice, I'll take my chances with you. At least until you prove that I shouldn't. The woods seem more threatening." Donald's expression was caustic as he cast a sidelong gaze toward Neal. "Even if you _are_ somewhat _questionable."_

Neal could practically hear in his mind the drums and the bass, and feel his fingers going numb while continuing the honky-tonk rhythm as a line from Kevin's onstage dialogue rambled while trading off guitar and vocal scat with Gary to rile up the crowd. 

_'...The best way to get through to someone, people ...is to speak to them in their own language, you know what I mean...?!'_ And while the dialect wasn't quite his own, the language Neal heard was one he was plenty fluent in, as well as one he found quite enjoyable to speak.

"Oh, that's funny you should say that," he said innocently, allowing his dour, resting expression to give way to a small smirk. "Depending on the day, Alan might tell you to choose the woods. Living together in college, he saw every side good or bad there is to me."

"I'll be sure to give him the few sympathies I have," Donald muttered. "Pity, I might heed his advice if I wasn't violently allergic to poison oak. I guess I'll just have to take my chances and find out if having my eyes swell shut is worth it the next time."

"Well, Ray suggested I come out and get to know you earlier. I wasn't opposed to the idea itself. But I wouldn't have thought it was worth it to come out here in this frozen shit if it weren't for the alarm."

Donald narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slightly. Something in him seemed to light up a little bit -for a mere second. A weak flicker. 

"Oh, _really?"_

Neal shrugged and rested his hands on his hips.

"What do you want from me?" The lights were back off and Donald was straight-on serious and skeptical again. "I can believe that Ray told you to come out here. I don't doubt it from him. But I know that's not why you did. You don't strike me as the social type. And if it takes one to know one, I've got your number in that department."

"I want you to hear me out," said Neal, also in all seriousness. "While I could be wrong, I got a pretty good feeling -and I'm usually right when I do -that you look like someone who'll agree with what I have to say, IF you'll do me the favor to hear it."

"Then let's hear it," said Donald, before bitterly adding, "it's not as if there's much more of interest here anyway. Do ME a favor and give me something to think about that's worth the time of night."

"Alright, I think I can pull that off. This," said Neal, motioning to the building, his own fingertips that were still too cold to the touch for his current time outside to justify, and to Donald's overall sickly appearance, "this here is NOT a coincidence. To say the least that I _could_ say!"

_No, it's not, Neal,_ thought Allen. _I'm glad you've come back knowing that. We just need to work on not setting yourself up for trouble, because you've already had quite a bit happen to you for only two major experiences._

"Is that _it?"_ scoffed Donald. "That's the understatement of the century. It's pretty pathetic you're the first I've heard say it. Tell me _more."_

_You're going to be even more advantageous to meet than I thought you'd be._

"You're in luck, because that's hardly the start of what I can say. But so you DO agree with me," exclaimed Neal. "See, I _knew_ the snow didn't freeze my brain up."

"Congrats on being able to use common sense; you'd be amazed how many people here either can't or choose not to for whatever God damned reason," quipped Donald, throwing his hands to his sides. "Just out of curiosity, let me guess: it only took you a couple of minutes to figure out where you were when it took some of the others a few weeks."

"Maybe more like half an hour, and only because I was incapacitated when I woke back up at Bruce's house in 1980. The house he hasn't had in _years."_

"Who the hell's Bruce?"

"Bruce Hall -he probably hasn't been around lately judging by the time period I'm lapsing in. He's our bass player who replaced Regis," explained Neal. "Which if nobody's been calling him that while I was away, that's our nickname we jokingly gave Gregg in '75 so we could embarrass him onstage during introductions."

"Regis Philbin. _Nice._ Did he leave, or did he get the boot?"

"It depends on how you look at it, or who you ask."

Donald exhaled huffily. "Sounds like a story I know in one form or another."

"He was losing patience and ready to leave, and we were noticing a decline in the attitude he played with. It's subjective as to who's a better player, but I'd still have Gary call Bruce up if we had it to do again," Neal admitted regretfully. "I wish Bruce was here right now."

"Well, that's a story that doesn't need to get older than it already is." Donald turned around on his heels and took a few long strides toward the woodland.

"And going by that, I'm assuming Walter Becker's not around either," strained Neal over the kicking wind. 

_And considering Mike said 'woe betide' and knowing that's a touchy topic, maybe the snow did actually freeze some of my brain,_ he added silently as Donald turned back around with an even longer stride to approach and something just short of murder flashing in his darkened eyes.

He pulled the stack of napkins from his coat liner, silently unfolded it, and thrust it out before Neal to see the signature scrawled on the soft paper fabric, annotated 'to Walter.'

"These are from local jazz players," said Neal, squinting and leaning forward to read it without making physical contact with the coveted item he was lucky enough to have an unguarded view of.

"This only runs one way."

Donald glowered at Neal as he spoke in a low, raspy tone just above a whisper. He strayed just beyond full eye contact, until it became apparent that he wasn't trying to throw a comment on the matter.

"Maybe you want to tell me it's silly," he hissed, stowing it away once more before the rain could dampen it further.

Neal stepped backward into an unimposing lean against the chain-link fence, ready to leave if asked.

"I always told myself back then it was to keep him going. I'd like to think it did and producing _Kamakiriad_ was him telling me in his own way. Of course, between writer's block and all else, it was just as much to keep me going."

Donald paused and gave a low, raspy chuckle, broken up by weak coughing. It was a sound bitter, lifeless, and empty that anyone in their right mind would recognize as anything other than a laugh. One Neal knew plenty well himself and understood fully when Donald listed with resignation against the fence beside him.

"I'd like to think it's for more than that here and now. That he's actually in Hawaii receiving it all when he could be just about anywhere. Or maybe he's not here and never will be in whatever this kind of world is and someone's just stuffing it in the trash. Whatever it is that determines who ends up here in this world and who doesn't." 

Neal flinched at Donald's last sentence, but pinned his hands behind himself with the urge to interrupt.

"...Who the fuck even knows anymore."

"I have a few suspicions," Neal finally murmured.

"Then you do have some stories worth hearing after all," Donald deadpanned, if with a semi-interested, sidelong glance. "Maybe you have more than that too."

"Try me." Neal closed his eyes, widened his stance, and put his arms out spread-eagle along the fence as if standing for a firing squad. "Tell me something you've found strange and I'll tell you if I've noticed it."

"Challenge accepted. I think I'm paralleling pretty strongly to a time in my life where the only goal for myself was getting through another day -or night -and moving forward so slow I'd hardly notice it if I didn't keep track. For all my attempts to keep track here, I don't see myself moving forward right now. I'm seeing the opposite, and before you go telling me that's not possible and I'm imagining-"

"-You're _not_ imagining it-"

_"Shit!"_

Smoke rose up from the grass in the field where the sudden streak of lightening connected with the ground, and a near-deafening crack of thunder sounded all but in sync with it. 

Being from the Midwest, Neal was no greenhorn to getting up close and personal with storms. He'd seen far worse than what was now a thunderstorm with occasional pea-sized hail pieces mixed in the rain. Donald had seen plenty like it in his mere month on the countryside town. Enough that his paranoia had settled at letting him keep a weary eye when he traveled outside rather than seeking shelter in a confined space indoors for hours.

It still didn't prevent either of them from startling, or jumping a foot in the air at the sheer proximity of the blinding white flash that split off like jagged tree limbs in the sky.

Neal glanced wearily across the street to the large crowd still standing before the building. Sirens were faintly audible in the distance, but even if the fire department showed up on the spot, it would still be a while before they would find the source -whatever the heck Ritchie did -and declare it safe to come back inside. And even without poison oak being undetectable in the dark, the woods were no safer than the open field in the lightening storm.

"There's a large building with an overhang." By the time Neal could look to his left, Donald had already taken off across the street again. This time, they ran through a large field to the left of the building they'd evacuated at the call of the alarm, and down another set of concrete steps was a large building with a recessed lower level. The upper level jutted over on concrete pillars, creating a steep overhang. Three feet in, the spray of the windblown rain reached its limit, and the platform stayed dry.

By the time both came to a stop, Donald was succumbing to congested wheezing, and the pre-fever headache Neal had when he'd first run outside was rising in intensity. He felt a dull throb in his temples with each strike of his feet on the ground, and it kept the rhythm even after he leaned on the wall of the building's lower level.

"I'm just going to go on a whim and guess that you didn't come straight here because it'd be too easy for me."

"Maybe I did, or not. If I'm gonna run away, generally speaking it's less'th effort to run where I don't expect people to follow me. Still wasn't hard enough to stop you. But that's not my point. You said I _wasn't_ imagining-"

"You weren't. I went backwards, time-wise. Most of us here have at some point. I just got back from reliving a night in my life from 1972 -with an added experience to add insult to injury because going back and being stuck there for seven months apparently wasn't _enough_ trouble. Before that I had one almost exactly as it happened in 1980, and Bruce was here. Gregg wasn't."

Donald snorted, rather emphatically, though lost most of the effect when it slung him into a coughing jag.

"...And so it's fair, I'd say you were crazy if you weren't telling me. Because I'm thinking _I'm_ crazy -more than I already was as of late -and expecting _you_ to straight up say it.

"I thought _I_ was crazy when I woke up back in that bar in Boulder nodding off on the stool. Not one of my most flattering moments, I'd say. But I heard some of the others reference it in lapse before then, and I figured out pretty quick what they were talking about." Neal rolled his eyes. "Of course, they don't mention it much, or say much when they do."

"It'd be nice if they DID," scoffed Donald. "As eager as some of them act to help out, they sure don't seem to think about what might really be pretty easy to do just by telling us. Y'know, it's not like they're shy to talk."

"I'd make the conjecture they want to see the greenhorns get the shit scared out of them like they probably did. Or thought they were crazy too. That's as good a guess as I've got."

"Yeah, you _think?"_

"Well, I got a twist on it," said Neal. "Yeah, we're in this split-off world, some of us have been here longer for whatever reason, and apparently, time doesn't go in order either. For all we know, we could wake up in 1972 tomorrow. Or you could wake up in 1972 and I could wake up in 1982. _Who_ knows?"

"Once I would have cringed at the thought of going back to '72, but I'd turn back over to that heartbeat in an instant if I could." Donald extended an index finger at Neal. "And you're telling me you think something -or someone -is controlling the times we're in?"

"Do _you?_ It just doesn't make sense that it'd be random," said Neal. "It's happening too organized. How did Gregg not show up in 1980 with us, and suddenly come on the scene in '72? Sure, Regis walked in and out, and some of the others did too while I was stuck in the snow, but how did we _all_ randomly show up at the same place, at the same time, same as we would have been then. Bruce wasn't there with us this time -he wasn't there yet. Terry was already gone, and Mike hadn't come to stand in for Kevin yet. Different events happened, but the same basis-"

"-It's 1984, or was, and it lined up pretty well here too, given I'm flying on my own. Though I'd rather it not have. Just to throw you for a loop, Doughty, what would you say if it _doesn't_ line up at some point?"

"I don't know how to answer that _yet_ ," he ceded. "I haven't been in lapse long enough to see much more than you have. But I'm willing to bet there's a catch to it. If we asked, or knew _who_ to ask for that matter."

Donald squinted and cocked an eye as one of the lights recessed into the ceiling of the overhang flickered in sync with a roll of thunder. Still caught up in thought, his speech gave way to a stutter of uncertainty.

"You know -and sometime before you were gone for however, if you had the chance to notice -say or maybe, did you ever get the sense that Don Dokken knows something? The way he acts, and how he mentions he won't say certain things because people have to make a problem over them?"

"He was one of the first guys I saw when I arrived in my first lapse." Neal lit up and pointed straight at the ceiling. "Come to think of it, I remember he said something like he _did_ try to mention it when I arrived with the others. Something about noticing after so much time, he felt like he was getting a partial sense of control -and that could mean he's thinking it too!" 

He deflated a little bit. "With us being new though, I was just trying to get my bearings with where I was. I needed to get a better idea of what I was talking about before jumping on that. Then Kevin wanted to get kind of moody about it, which pretty much shut down all talk on the topic."

"That's believable." _Oh, why the hell am I not surprised?_

"There are reasons why I love Kevin, and plenty others why he drives me crazy." Neal sighed defeatedly. "He has a big mouth. It's a blessing onstage because I don't ever have to talk to anyone, but it's just as much a curse when he's not thinking the same way as you."

"I've already seen why. I haven't had too much trouble with Don. If anything, he's the most tolerable of who I've been spending my time with the past month. Honest enough about what he says. And he respects when I've had enough of everyone and tells them when to leave me alone. At least it gets them off my case for a little while." Donald turned to look Neal square in the eye. "Do you think one of us could get him to talk about it if we tried asking him?"

Neal winced. "That's hard to say..."

_He's got some pretty thick walls up around him,_ Allen added silently, wishing he could be there and speak aloud. _But maybe there's a chance he's not entirely lost behind them, if you approach him right._

_"...Well..._ I saw how he responded to you. Judging by the last hour -and don't trust me too much when I can only speak for that much time since getting here -I don't think he'll have a problem with _you_ per say. He probably think's he's got _your_ number. Doesn't seem untrue to me."

"Hasn't been a problem between us as far as I've been here. Not that there have been many words, but I guess sooner or later that stops somewhere."

"Then I'd guess he'd listen to you. We don't have any bad blood between the two of us, but with Kevin in my camp, he might not be so responsive to _me_ on THAT issue. He's made it pretty clear he's not gonna talk about it if he thinks someone's going to shoot his words down," said Neal. "Last summer, I saw him go through quite a bit. I think he hesitates to say what he's seen and what he thinks about it, because what's the point in trying to argue when nobody will even hear your side -whether or not they have the support for their own."

"Sounds pretty familiar to what I hear coming from him when it's alluded to. Our best chance is probably going to entail getting him alone. Seems easy enough; I bet that ends up being the most difficult operation."

"And we'll be lucky enough if his perspective is enough on its own," Neal added. "Is there anyone else you think could give us some information?"

"Mike Pinder might be an alternative if we can't get through to Don. At first look, he acts like a fuckin' hippie about it," Donald sneered, "but picking what he says apart sometimes, I think he's got some direction on this place. He's a dreamer, but he didn't let all his sharp edges smooth over. He's not _stupid_. To give him credit where it's due."

"If you go after Don Dokken, I'll approach Mike," Neal offered. "From what I remember, Mike's been here since 2017, and Don's a 2016 veteran to this."

"Doesn't surprise me AT ALL he's so moody all the time if that's where he's coming from." Donald shook his head. "I'd question if anyone else was here before him at that time -since I have yet to see any sign there was now."

"Those guys have way more understanding of this than we might have for a long time," agreed Neal. "Look, if we're gonna chase down what's really going on here, I'll help get things started and contribute where I can, but I'm not a fan of being the leader and I'd rather not front this effort if someone who's been here longer will. I normally like to be in my place, do my thing, and not have anyone bugging me. If you get what I'm saying."

"You act like you _don't_ think I get what you're saying," Donald retorted. "I didn't end up being a frontman by choice. Avoided it like the plague as long as I could and still questioned it for the longest time. I guess I eventually got the hang of it -at least I did there. Good thing too, because I'm the last one standing there now."

"You have my condolences," said Neal, though his slacked eyelids and deadpan voice made it drip with sarcasm like the waterfall from the gutter on the overhang. "This comes from the guy who used to run full-speed from the stage back to the dressing room after the 80s shows to avoid having to deal with hundreds of people screaming at me and shoving crap for me to sign. I'm more compelled to give them the time now that they know not to stampede like animals. You know, maybe approach like they might be civil human beings. Or at least as close to it as we were ourselves in the day, because some might say we weren't, but others might say it's all relative."

Giving way to a lopsided smirk, Donald extended his index finger and limply raised his arm to point at Neal, then to the side of his own head. The light was back in him, if only for a second before it disappeared yet again.

"You're not on quite the same frequency, but I _like_ the way you think."

Three faint, long, buzzing blasts echoed in the distance.

"That's an all-clear code," he said flatly. "We _should_ be able to go back inside, IF they're not all standing around like they're deaf until the police come outside and ask them what's the holdup."

"I wonder what some of these people are doing to damage their hearing so bad, since I know they haven't experienced being on a stage every night, and I hear it fine," Neal muttered, inaudible under a gust of wind that blew a spray of rain and ice deeper under the overhang.

"Oh, _of course,"_ Donald spat, recoiling at the icy spray and retreating to the side of the building again. "Given our luck put together, this storm isn't going to lighten up if we wait here any longer to head back, so we'd best suck it up and make a mad dash now if we're going to. Unless you changed your mind about being out here, because I can hold out here all night if that's what it comes down to."

"The idea's a lot less repulsive than it was earlier, and I think I've proven I'm strong enough to survive a bit, but I think I've had more than my fill of excitement with being out in storms for awhile." Neal kept a stoic expression under his hooded eyelids, but lifted two fingers to rub at one of his temples as the pre-fever throb grew stronger -enough to push at the limit for what he found bearable.

In between the smaller stones, a few golf-ball sized hail struck the ground before the overhang.

Donald looked inside his coat, checking that his stack of signed napkins was securely stowed away from the vicious precipitation. 

"It keeps taking it night by night from being _entirely_ a bore. But I think I've had enough too."

_This discussion is far from over._ Neal was already running forward this time when Donald sent him a last glance and shot into a final sprint through the night toward the building. Once again, it stood quiet and deserted on the hillside. 

Allen ran in the dark too, even if he went unseen and didn't have a prayer of keeping up despite his healthier split form.

_Hang tight, both of you. Get Dokken and Pinder if you can, and I'll be there in just a week. Less than._


	5. Get Me Out Of Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Log Entry Author -ALLEN LANIER: "...Everyone is in dire straits and nobody knows why. But I have my suspicions..." "...It's been some time since the last entry I threw out; it simply seemed time for another. It might be the last I make before leaving exile, but anything could happen in the next three days. Especially after such a busy start to the week."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to my works "The Lost Chords" and "Pull Over and Jam", and the title is a nod to a sing off John Lodge's recent album, _10,000 Light Years Ago_. In this chapter, the guys are feeling the impact of a severe panic attack that got the paramedics called on me at school -my writing suffers when I have a meltdown; thus, they do too.

_Date: 4/18/19. (Exile day 44.)_

_Log entry author -ALLEN LANIER._

Let me see... what should I pick to refer to as the highlight of this week?

In past weeks, I have posed this question in writing to myself in jest. Please understand that when you're exiled and have no two-way interaction with anyone, or any responses to your own thoughts and questions than the ones you can find in the space between your own two ears, life isn't always very interesting. Even someone blessed with good, sharp wit can get bored of their own mind without some outer stimulation. Surprising, but sadly true.

This week, however, I have quite a bit to choose from. I might actually have a challenge -something to entertain me and keep me busy.

And it's a _damn good thing_ , because I need the distraction. _Need_ it. Here by myself, I can't be bothered to care if that sounds undignified anymore. This is the first time in exile I've truly felt a need for escape, and I don't say that lightly, because I've had plenty of moments of bored insanity -perhaps my best have been here in this split world, my freshman experience in particular! I'm not feeling far away from how I felt then, acting crazy with road sickness and desperate for Eric to pull the van over before I had to spend another minute inside.

_God_ , get me _out_ of here.

It's only three more days (you think the Lenten period is only forty days. It is not. That is a comforting lie told to protect you, and to make you believe it is shorter than it is, resulting from how older rituals used to work) and I am suffocating here in the dark. Not the typical kind of suffocation -I can tell plenty about that experience from my final years in the standard world. Or rather, I _won't._ I don't like to dwell on my suffering. It does nothing for it, and neither does superficial pity.

[Get it together, Lanier. You can at least make a frenzied run across the hills to blow off steam. How Neal Doughty coped with being trapped in his little hole for seven months is beyond me. With the burrow of blankets Donald Fagen hides himself in, he's probably jealous of both of us, hidden from the world passing by.]

I only focus on this now because it might serve as evidence to my case for the split world. But I'll get back to that in a moment. I'd better not dwell on it too long at once; I saw what that nearly did to some of the others earlier. I'll make my list of interesting things that have happened this week. Without further ado...

_Highlight of the Week Nominees*, April 15th - April 21 (LAST ONE!):_

-Neal Doughty returns to the world of lapse. I need not explain after my last entry I opted to share why this is something I am pleased with.

-Do I dare to say Donald Fagen perked up a little bit last night during his talk with Neal? It's as much as I've seen him open up to somebody in lapse in a month. This is shaping up quite nicely... faster than I anticipated it would.

-Watching Neal miss the other main lapse hideout we tend to have in the summer (it's the only one he's known before his return). He had to learn how to navigate a much less compact building last night after his fever kicked in. Poor guy. (Apparently he wasn't humiliated enough in Colorado?)

-Mike Pinder was very generous and helped show Neal around. Unfortunately, Neal was far too tired and delirious at that point to get into a deep conversation with him as he planned to. Another time, maybe? (At least they seemed to get on well. I have no concerns that sparks will fly over talking to Mike.)

-That conversation between Don Dokken, Jeff Pilson, and Reb Beach. I almost wonder by the tone he said it with if Don knew something might actually happen if they let themselves succumb to being sick. And while Reb has an easily intimidated exterior, I don't mistake him to be innocent... His sudden willingness to become ill once Don and Jeff mentioned it, bouncing off Neal's thought -I think something clicked in him. I suspect he has his suspicions he's too shy to share, for whatever reason may be.

-I sincerely believe John Lodge didn't mean anything by it, but when he got to absentmindedly singing "Nervous", it was almost as though he did know what would have happened if Mike would not have come back. And so the story fits for so many others. Donald's night-flights for Walter Becker. Reb's dreamed torment of trying and failing to reconnect with Kip Winger. And with the way Gary Richrath's time in REO Speedwagon ended, I question if there was more to it than his kind nature when he tended to Reb. (Does he sense trouble of his own coming -especially with what happened today here?)

-Damn, right, that time is gonna come, Richrath! Even if trouble is on the way. I see it! Now, if we could just get there...

-Did the sparks fly between Blackmore and Fagen or what? (...and some in the elevator shaft afterwards too. Oops...)

-There was an attempted moment of interaction between Dokken and Fagen today. Unfortunately, it didn't get anywhere helpful before the wheels came off the bus.

-Alan Gratzer did say something to Ian Paice today that...

*this is not accounting for April 19th, 20th, and 21st. They are still upcoming, and this list is subject to addition.

...God damn it! (Ever since seeing Neal's reaction to the alarm last night, I'm itching to strike a table the same way he did when I say that. Or better yet, a piano, please. I'd save so many words and much mental effort if I could just make the most discordant sound possible to describe this day and what I feel about it.) I'll have to strike half that list off later. If it's subject to addition, it's at least subject to subtraction too.

Those of you still reading along my case (I know the insanity has lost a few), I ought to make a suggestion: Don't _ever_ write in the immediate aftermath of a panic attack, during the jitters of waning adrenaline when the mind is too clouded. At least don't write if you have the option to wait, and the ability to do something else for distraction -otherwise, you might be embarrassed later. Unfortunately, I don't have the latter, so baring some nonsense to the world will have to do.

As you might have thought earlier, it was only intended to be a list of interesting events. But in my desperate -and still anxious -state of mind to put things right, I focused on what I saw that might be helpful.

That said, all of that is interesting for _me_ , and it's my own list, so it also must stay. Sometimes, life can in fact contradict itself and still make sense. If that's a problem to you, please try to get over it, or you will be very disappointed with life.

I might as well get back to my other point now. If you were paying close enough attention, you might have thought the mention of a "panic attack" to be odd here. They're not a phenomenon I'm very familiar with by personal experience, but I'm familiar enough to know what they are, and I've been able to see plenty of others to know I'm not the only one affected today.

In fact, almost everyone in this lapse location has suffered (Gregg Philbin was wise to leave when he did this morning), and I am unsure if my bandmates are still asleep or if they are also in isolated, exile terror. Buck and Joe hardly deserved this...

It started around 3:00 o'clock in the afternoon.

I highly question what brought this on. Everyone is in dire straits and nobody knows why. But I have my suspicions.

How much does our controller inflict on us, and how much is just the result of their own troubles that they have no more of a hand in than us? The point I'm attempting to make isn't a show of pity, though I do take to playing devil's advocate at times to try understanding what I'm up against. Different perspectives tell a lot.

Even when I can easily tell I'm not in control of a situation here, I have some sense of partial control. Part of me wants to follow through with what I'm pushed toward, and maybe we'll find out soon enough if fighting that is what Don Dokken has mentioned -and if so, how he manages to do it.

Today, I felt absolutely no control whatsoever. And that's saying a lot when I don't have much here in exile. At least less than I usually do.

I get the sense that this today wasn't supposed to happen, though I could be wrong. I think our controller experienced everything we felt in some form.

Who knows how far and deep a connection of minds can run? Can it manifest physically and emotionally too?

Alternatively, we could blame the fevers some of them have, and maybe the power of suggestion brought me to it from where I'm stuck out here. However, that doesn't explain why Gary Richrath and Kevin Cronin had a verbal showdown in the lounge over Gary's demons until both were in tears over it, when neither of them are sick -YET. I'd best not jinx them; they're already in enough trouble with their surroundings. (I don't understand how those two love each other and want the best for each other as much as they do, but still inflict so much hurt and fight all the time. I thought I had problems in MY band. Time and time again, Dokken and REO Speedwagon -and especially the currently-absent Ratt -prove me wrong.)

I'll choose not to describe how Donald succumbed to today's misery. He wouldn't appreciate it if I did. Nobody visible to him in the room was awake to witness the distress he was in, and I'm sure he'd like the experience to stay as private as he'll think it was -at least until Neal happened upon him in the aftermath, while not feeling much better.

I think it's not fair that Jeff Pilson and Reb Beach slept peacefully through the worst of it while whatever the hell it was reared its ugly head and knocked Neal out of a sound sleep. Though I realize Neal has had plenty of sleep in the snow, and Jeff and Reb have had very little as of late. That could have something to do with it.

...No, I take the first half of that statement back. That was getting carried away with jealousy over where I am. Those two have been through far too much and have had enough nightmares and panic attacks of their own. I should say it's unfair that Donald didn't get a pass on it. And Neal for that matter. He started in his sleep right before it hit me, and I could have sworn he was having febrile seizures.

Through his panic -as my own set in -I tried to talk to him. But as John Lodge's song applies, he was still just out of reach.

So I resorted to pressing my fingers to my wrist and counting my pulse. Trying to play songs to them. Once I reached 140 beats per minute, the palpitations in my chest were percussive enough that I didn't need to feel for arteries. Albert might as well have turned my ribcage into his kick drum, and he played just as strong and precise as usual. This is about the point the physical pain is unbearable for most, and I can be grateful for applying music to it as a distraction from more than just pain, because it channels some of the adrenaline out too. Again, if only I had access to a piano... Writer's block must be torture for any musician who lives with these episodes. I'll ask Fagen if I still have any doubts once I'm out of here, as he should be an expert on both parts of the subject.

Torture to anyone, except Alan Gratzer. That man must be one of the most stable human beings to grace the larger 80s rock scene. He channeled his own rising adrenaline out by tending to his bandmates who weren't taking it as well, brought them through, and fought it like a champ even without his drums. If Kevin couldn't fight the feeling, Alan could -and damn good thing too! If there's anything he could retell from his perspective, I'd trust his word a hundred percent. He might have even figured out Don's method without realizing!

I missed some of the events once I hit 170. Standing still was impossible. It's technically not "fight or flight" that describes the adrenaline-fueled reactions, but "fight, flight, or freeze," and with the first option not being possible while exiled, for me it was either run like hell, or stand still until I passed out stone cold. That last option didn't seem like it would be helpful if I'd stayed out too long -I might have missed more than I did before I ran back.

And that's where I sit now. Still at an elevated 90, in the aftershocks with everyone else.

Not all is lost though. What I was thrilled to see happen last night continued in the aftermath, with the promise of more to come. There, I can confidently say, is the silver lining.

For those of you who lose interest quickly, I'm sure that my descriptions of today have been enough. It's been some time since the last entry I threw out; it simply seemed time for another. It might be the last I make before leaving exile, but anything could happen in the next three days. Especially after such a busy start to the week.

Those of you who still wish to follow while we figure out the mysteries of this split world, if you continue with me, I can give you another direct window on the world of lapse. Please tell me someone will come along -give me something to do while I'm stuck here...

_(To be continued)_


	6. April 18th, 2019: Flashbacks and Fever Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mass panic spreads in lapse, and it's all everyone can do to make it through. Alan Gratzer scrambles to hold the fort down, stopping briefly to assist Ian Paice and Kevin Cronin along the way, while Ray Thomas and Mike Pinder help each other take a trip in mind to escape it. For everyone else who can't escape or be helped, distraction is key. Picking up from the previous night, Donald Fagen seeks Neal Doughty's prior knowledge of Don Dokken, and finds his understanding too. Neal looks back on his freshman lapse in 2018, when Don relived a time of regrowth and rebuilding in the aftermath of Dokken's first breakup.

_4/18/19_

Bracing himself in the doorway of the "healthy" bedroom, as they'd dubbed it the night before, Alan Gratzer took a deep breath to take the edge off the slamming of his heart against his slim ribcage. Just as it lightened up, he steeled himself for another run through the long hallway and up and down the stairwell that would inevitably set it pounding again.

He'd seen Don Dokken make a swift exit from the "sick" bedroom earlier, and had given up on finding him. After checking everywhere in the building he would be, Alan knew he'd likely gone to walk around the large, landscaped garden half a mile down the hill to the West while dealing with the anxiety that seemed to be plaguing them all. If he had, there was no way in hell he was going to go that far and bother him when he was probably managing fine on his own.

Ten minutes prior, Alan had all but flipped out thinking he'd have to call paramedics. Opening the door of the healthy bedroom to find Mike, Ray, and John sprawled out on their backs in the middle of the floor was _not_ something he'd been ready for.

As it turned out, they were just trying to relax by following something they'd learned from Timothy Leary. Ray and Mike were _definitely_ tripping on acid. Despite still-tense bodies and breathing, they spoke with dreamy voices and chuckled as they spoke of colors on the ceiling -and apparently the shadows cast from the trees outside the windows with fresh leaves resembled birds, and planets beyond the layer of atmosphere they flew in.

Alan could give them credit for the method to their madness. It seemed to be keeping them at ease, and had allowed them to escape in their minds to some calmer place. However, it wasn't a method he would personally choose, for the risk of less helpful side effects. And John seemed to agree, because while he was on the floor, he seemed much more sober and grounded in reality. Talking to him for a brief moment to see that he was alright verified that. Alan found out he wasn't a fan of drugs, and was simply spread out to minimize the claustrophobic feeling he felt, and to listen in on whatever his mates saw to see if he could stretch his unaltered imagination to it.

Ritchie Blackmore had been having one of his rare, nervous meltdowns for the last two hours. He was now curled up on his bed with a thin blanket pitched over him like a tent, and another hanging down like a curtain from the upper bed. Alan doubted Ritchie would want any help from him in the first place, but cautiously beginning to approach just to verbally offer help brought on warnings from Ian Paice, who was reaching down to grip the rail of the bunk with a white-knuckle hold, and very bravely sitting on the edge beside Ritchie, blocking the view in from the blanket curtain.

"He's right calm right now compared to earlier. Give him a moment. Or I'll try to talk to him when it's safe. If you try now, he'll just start crying his eyes out. And he'd hate that." Paicey bit his lip and gazed to the ceiling, chest heaving with shallow breaths. "I haven't seen him this bad since San Antonio in 1971. And I'd suspect we were going back there -if it weren't for everyone else having the same. I only wish we hadn't made such a fuss then. I think he'd have faired better ...and I'm trying not to make the same mistake, if I can."

"Well, I'm sure you're already doing better from knowing. If you need me to get him anything, let me know, and I'll pass it along to you." Alan looked up to the top bed to find it empty.

"Is Jon alright?"

"He went to have a shower. To relax himself. I think he's past the worst. He's shaken is all." 

Though Paicey was very well composed for the panic wreaking havoc on most of them, Alan couldn't help but be concerned over his labored breathing, especially between short, choppy sentences.

"Do you need your rescue inhaler?"

Paicey shook his head. "I've already used it. In hopes I won't get a spasm. But I don't think that's the problem. I just need to stop myself from hyperventilating."

"I could get you some coffee, but I don't know if that'd be such a hot idea until we all calm down some. Or you probably do tea, don't you?"

"After all the years of tours, either is fine. And water would help best... unless you've got something stronger on hand. I know I technically shouldn't. Not while I'm in this state, but-"

"Trust me, almost everyone in the music industry from our day understands the feeling." Alan gave a reassuring smile -or his best attempt of one for his own state -and got a cup from the stack by the sink and filled it halfway with water. "If you can get your breathing calmed down, I'll see if Gary has anything that would be good to mix in some tea to help you the rest of the way. While I'm not gonna jump on him like Kevin unfortunately just did, it wouldn't hurt him if I stole a shot or two from his stash."

"You're doing so much for all of us, Alan," said Paicey, grateful as much as guilty. "Maybe I can lend you a hand once I'm-"

"Nope." Alan shook his head and held his shivering hands up. "You're doing fine _right here_ looking out for Ritchie. You know him better than I do, and you don't need to push it too hard and get sick with the others. Give me a hand by making sure he's hanging tight here, and that's great. And take an eight-stroke roll down to a slower rhythm. That's something you'd probably do with your eyes closed-"

"If I weren't the perfectionist I am," Paicey finished, looking half-abashed, and half-pleased with Alan's analogy. "Maybe that's half the problem here for me -here, I can't stop thinking of how I should do things differently if I can. And on that roll comment, that's quite an imaginative way of saying it. I appreciate hearing that terminology from someone else, as well as what you're doing to put it right."

He already seemed to be relaxing some, Alan noticed. The distraction he'd hoped to make with drum terminology they had in common had taken hold.

"Hey now, I don't know what this is or what brought it on, and we can't control that now when it's already happening," he said. "But we can at least try to control how we're gonna get through it and how it'll end now that it's happening, and that's what we're trying to do here. I'll be between here, the other bedroom, the lounge, and the kitchen. If you can't get anyone else and need something, come find me." With that, Alan was back on the run.

On his way down the stairs to check on Gary and Kevin in the lounge, he was met by Kevin making his way up, teary-eyed and fully tensed up. The already-fading sense of relief Alan had felt was over at that.

"Hey, KC," he offered hesitantly, knowing he was probably going to break the barrier, whether or not it stood a chance anyway.

"I don't want to do it again, Alan," Kevin burst out. "I don't want to have to go through that mess a second time, and I feel it -I know it's eventually gonna happen. I don't know when it's coming, but I know that it is!"

_Oh boy, here we go again..._ Alan took a gulp of air, blew it out slowly, and put his arm around Kevin's shoulders, pulling him in and guiding him to sit down on the steps.

"Kevin," he warned, "I get where you're coming from, but you gotta _calm down_ right now. This here isn't gonna help anything or change whatever's happening."

"I don't want it to happen the same way, and I _know_ it will!" Kevin was rambling, now well past keeping a second round of sobbing at bay. "When he gets to the point -the same one he got to -being all screwed up -and when he can't function, he'll _have_ to leave the band, 'cause he'll just keep doing it on the road -I can't help that his own project didn't hit and he got depressed and just went off the deep end and all... And I don't know how to do it without hurting him again and ruining everything between us, or the other guys when I love them too, a-and ending up apart and not talking -to fix that part -because of how it -and that's the thing I don't want to happen again. That's the part that'll d-destroy him, j-just like it did then, and-"

"Whoa, Kevin!" Alan put the brakes on his ramble then. Not so much because he already knew the story being told -which was true for what he'd been there for before he retired. Despite his own need for a distraction, he didn't need Kevin to get sick too, and that was looking like a very possible outcome as he started gasping in hiccups. He _really_ wished he had some backup diffusing this one.

_Where's Bruce when you need him? Or Liz..._

"Alright, I'd like to say that I'll be there and make it different this time, but I can't promise that," he started uncertainly. "If I get to the point where I can't stand the touring anymore, that was a hard decision, and it was painful, but it was the right one and I won't do it any different. But if I can be there, we'll cross that bridge with Gary when we get to it, and we'll work to figure out what'll make sure he'll be okay."

"A-and if you're n-not?"

"KC, I think you need to look at what you wish you'd done differently -whether it was telling him yourself instead of sending Neal to be the messenger, or agreeing to stay in contact with him, or still doing something on the side together if he's not in the main band ...or what -I don't know -and if you can fight to make it happen, _do it._ For all we know, we'll go back in time again after that happens and it'll be fine, but if we can get a do over here, take it!"

"I d-dunno if... I can..." Kevin clung to the rail posts with shaking hands and leaned over as dizziness washed over him like a tidal wave.

"You should think about it later when you're able to think straight, and not about to pass out. Come on, 'Ridin the Storm Out'," said Alan, clapping his hand on Kevin's bony shoulder blade encouragingly. "Because that's kind of what we're doing right now in a sense isn't it? Studio version, like we just did last week in Colorado, except I'm gonna sing your part and you're just gonna sing the backup line."

A couple of passes through the chorus, pushing out the slow, airy, descending _'whoooo...'_ after each repeat of "Ridin the Storm Out" was enough to get Kevin's hiccuping under control. It left little room to inhale, but Alan did it with him as well as the main vocal line on the last time through to retain his own fragile state of calm.

"Look, I gotta go make sure Gary's gonna be alright for right now. Then I gotta check everyone in the sick bedroom, and see if Paicey's feeling better now. If you've still got it together after that, I could use your help, Kev. We don't have Lizard here with us, as much as some of us wish we did right now."

"Maybe someday we will, for all we know," said Kevin shakily. 

"Both of us hope so. Until then, filling that gap works better if I'm not on my own, and I know you're like me -you hang better if you have something to do."

Alan sighed, thinking of their studio housekeeper from the 80s, Elizabeth Frye. Who jokingly referred to herself as their "combination mother-wife" (except she didn't sleep with any of them) -and somehow managed to like them all despite their worst habits and all around craziness. He'd never seen anyone able to send Neal's snide, dirty-minded jokes back to him the same way in the standard world. At least here, he hoped that somebody would be able to do the last part for the sake of keeping their grumpy keyboardist in a good mood. Everything else, they could manage, though it was currently leaving them with a stern reminder of how much they appreciated having her around during their craziest studio sessions.

As he got up to finish making his way downstairs, Kevin nodded and excused himself to run up the stairs and wash up first, as he'd been on his way to do before having a second meltdown.

Alan found Gary curled up in a chair in the lounge, crashed out asleep. Aside from the occasional reflexive sniffle and dried tear tracks staining his cheeks, he seemed peaceful. There was no sense in messing with that -at least not yet. He immediately turned around and ran back up to the kitchen, and down the hall to the sick bedroom with a stack of disposable cups and a bottle of ibuprofen -the last stop of the cycle.

Don Dokken was still missing from the room. He had a _hunch_ as to where Donald Fagen was, but suspected the out-of-sight keyboardist wanted to be left alone as much as Ritchie did if that hunch was correct. So Alan left a couple of doses of ibuprofen on the sink, tablets separated into distinct groups, for both of them to find with a note, and didn't bother with them further.

_Let me see..._ He hopped up on the ladder wrung between two of the three bed sets that were in an L-shaped formation by the exterior wall and window.

_One-oh ...two?_ he guessed as he placed the back of his hand against Jeff Pilson's forehead. He gently brushed down the side of Jeff's cheek, feeling the same heat radiating there too. Something close to that. He'd had ibuprofen about four hours ago -too soon for more. Maybe it was still on its way down, or coming back up, depending on how fast Jeff wore through it. The rough temperature was concerning. Alan made note to check on Jeff again in the next hour and decide what was next based on any changes.

He straddled over to the other bed's ladder to see Reb Beach, feeling his heart jump momentarily, even when he'd taken far-less stable movements of the sort on buses driving down torn-up highways. 

_Over 100... but nothing too high._ Reb would feel cruddy when he woke up, but it wouldn't be anything impossible to get through. He _was_ up for more ibuprofen, but seeing him as peaceful as he was, he didn't dare wake him up any sooner than Gary.

The bed jostled a bit from the bunk below, where Neal was camped out. Alan descended the ladder to check his own bandmate's temperature.

_Whatever he's reacting to, it's not a high fever... He's a little warm, but the ibuprofen worked wonders on him. That's good -at least we got that._

"Bruce..." Neal moaned incoherently from where he lay sprawled across the bed, hanging halfway between consciousness and the tail end of a nightmare.

_Yeah, Neal, I wish he was with us right now too..._ A poke and whisper of 'pssst!' without an immediate response confirmed he wasn't really looking for someone to care for him -only reacting to his dream. 

For which Alan was glad. He suspected that Neal would not hesitate to call him some snarky fusion of 'Nightingale' with his own name -likely "Nightingalan" or "Nightingratzer" -for a solid week if he'd been aware of his hurried tending to everyone.

With that, he was on his way back to the healthy bedroom to check on Paicey, and to start the cycle of running through the hall all over again.

In the confines of his subconscious, Neal had fallen through deep snow, and unlike the snowbank he'd been trapped in for months, there was no anticipating it. No blizzard, no visible snowbanks, or snow up over his knees. There was only a patch of slush on the sidewalk past the front of the sports complex he'd run beside last night, and though it was wide as the path itself, he hadn't given any second thought to walking over it. He'd had plenty of experience walking on slippery, frozen surfaces, having grown up in Indiana and Illinois.

However, here it had been a trap. The sidewalk was caved in, and the slush hid an unanticipated snowbank, which he fell down into, several feet under, beneath the ground. Nobody would know if they hadn't seen him go down, and unlike his experience in Colorado, he'd fallen so deep in this one that he had no window whatsoever to see above himself. He was trapped, buried, claustrophobic, and already smothering.

But he could hear Bruce calling for him from above, heard the sound of something digging into the snow above, and two other voices -one he could identify by a distinctive lisp giving muffled orders to Bruce, and one he couldn't place coming from somewhere else, giving him orders of his own.

_'You can get yourself out of the trap and control what happens here, Neal Doughty. But it'll take some help and a lot of diligence on your part. All of you need to watch each other's backs -these traps are hiding everywhere, and you could just as easily be banished here with me.'_

He could then hear Gary and Kevin fighting each other, yelling accusations back and forth until they were exhausted and both pleading for resolution. _"What's your problem?!" "I don't want to hear it from you anymore!" "Can we...?" "...no, that's it! We're done here..."_ He heard Bruce straining and asking for help in vain, and he heard a hiss of 'you idiots aren't helping shit', presumably toward Gary and Kevin as Neal heard the stunned quiet signaling that they'd finally called cease-fire after reducing each other to tears and choked-back sobs. Alan's voice came in at the end, diffusing the situation with those two and allowing Bruce to focus on getting to him -which still wasn't happening fast enough. His vision was blacking out...

With another smothered call, Neal finally broke fully free of his terror and jerked awake in bed. He frantically untangled himself from the sheets that were twisted three times around his body to effectively immobilize him, and looked up hopefully, even though he knew he wouldn't see what -or who -he wanted. 

With his Colorado rescue complete, Gregg had left with no intent to come back until a situation presented him with no choice. However, the blond bassist with the heart of gold who had taken over for him in 1977 had not taken over in the lapse world.

Then as Neal got his bearings and came to full consciousness, the panic hit him like a train.

There was only one other time he'd felt the way he did -or twice, when he'd re-experienced the hardest night of his life as his freshman experience in the split world. Bruce Hall, bless him, had looked out for him just the same when they were both confused and scared, figuring out that such a split had occurred.

This time, he wasn't here as the room spun out into a blur too thick to see through, and as the air left Neal's lungs and his hands went entirely numb. He knew Kevin, Alan, and Gary were checking in every now and then, but even if Bruce had been there, he wouldn't have been able to stay with him for long, when he'd been banished to the bedroom of 'sick ones' -some of who he still barely knew. _Bless their hearts,_ he thought scathingly, until the swelling anger poured fuel on the panic and sent him past the point of no return.

He couldn't see Don Dokken where he'd been, and with as guarded as he remembered him being, if Don had felt anything similar, he would have isolated himself somewhere away from everyone else. Even if it did mean getting out of bed and losing some of the sleep he'd coveted the night before.

"Crap," he muttered shakily, realizing that he probably wasn't the only one, and lost on seeing it as a bad thing, or feeling assured that he wasn't losing his mind. Though it seemed that Jeff and Reb -who had become sick despite all efforts to prevent it -weren't effected. They were surely so knocked out, nothing short of another fire alarm would wake them up before they were ready.

_At least they got that part of what they were hoping for,_ Neal thought with defeat as he lay back down on the bed, feeling too dizzy to sit up any longer. His eyes stung and his body burned, save for his ice cold hands and feet. As he struggled to push out a breath against the invisible straps constricting around his chest, the nightmarish cramping he'd expected -and dreaded -started through his limbs. The muscles tightened and twitched, causing his arms and legs to suddenly convulse at random intervals. It wasn't a true seizure, but just as he had in his two past experiences with the phenomenon driven by tachycardia, he felt every bit as helpless until he could get a grip long enough to make the spasms stop and bring the feeling back to his tingling hands.

Finally, his torment began to fade. He blinked back the unshed tears that threatened him at the end without betraying him, leaving one spared bit of embarrassment to be grateful for. With his vision cleared and what he hoped was the worst over, Neal sat up with the aid of the bedpost and scanned the room over. As much as he wanted to when his head pounded and his entire body was heavy and buzzing in the aftermath, falling back asleep so soon after wouldn't do him any favors. He needed a distraction to keep from sliding back into the panic, and the snowbank in his dreams. Something to keep him awake until he was calm and grounded in the strange reality he'd come to exist in.

It was when his eyes fell to the floor under the lower bunk of a third set that he noticed the pile of blankets. He would have dismissed it as an odd place to put a laundry pile -perhaps out of shame, if someone had been stricken with violent nausea in their bunk and couldn't get away from it fast enough. However, the tip of a shoe emerging from one end, in a position that told him otherwise when he saw it, and it was enough to strike his concern.

Whether or not whoever it was had succeeded in surviving his ailment up until then, Neal wasn't feeling generous enough to approach him before pulling himself together first -if that wasn't a bad idea anyway. He stooped over the sink and washed his face and hands with cold water, before cupping his hand under the spigot and taking a few long gulps. If it didn't help keep his low-grade fever and panic down, at least it would distract him from both for a moment. 

Fighting vertigo down the seemingly endless walk down the hall to the facilities afterward was an even stronger distraction. Brushing fingertips along the wall on one side to assess his balance, he made quick glances to ensure no one was around to see how pathetic he figured he looked. How he missed the close proximity of each room, and the basic privacy of the upper floor apartment built above the dog boarding facility and vet clinic he'd been in during his first lapse. It was tempting to stay in the bathroom awhile instead of braving the open hall again. If he left immediately, he'd be back soon enough following his previous remedy, and the thought of warm shower called to his aching sinuses too. However, the heat was the last thing he needed until his blood pressure came down, especially if his fever spiked again over top of it. The disappointment of denying himself that comfort, and knowing he had another long walk ahead, became yet another distraction.

When Neal got back to the room, still shaky but feeling half-alive, he braced himself on the footboard of the third bunk to keep from falling forward with the next wave of vertigo, and stooped down to get a closer look at the mess underneath it from a still-safe distance.

The large nose visible in profile sticking past a rat's nest of dark hair gave Neal enough of an answer. Then Donald Fagen flinched up from his sideways-fetal-position in the burrow of blankets to look at him straight-on, staying huddled and rigid with defense. He hadn't been in the room when Neal had gone to sleep, so he'd arrived and hidden himself out sometime after, and well before he woke up judging by his appearance.

His eyes were suspiciously bloodshot for sickness alone, with sagging eyelids that didn't want to stay fully open to match the rest of his fearful posture, and his pupils seemed wider than they should have been. Granted, it was dim between the only light source coming from the window and a small desk lamp, and being under the bed. But he seemed to relax slightly and gave a sarcastic sniff that told Neal retreating wasn't necessary, just as he started to take a backward step.

"If you're gonna stare me down, you might as well come down here with me to do it instead of imitating a vulture, Doughty. I don't really care. You seem to have enough hangups of your own to keep shit from happening. Not that you don't look dangerous. You look like someone pissed in your cereal," Donald murmured, hesitantly unfolding a hand from his side to point toward Neal's dour expression.

"Here I'd hardly be able to blame someone if they _did_ ," complained Neal, lowering himself to the floor and only letting go of the bed frame once he was down. Then he coughed a couple of times and swallowed hard against the mucus in his throat that released on his impact with the floor. "It's such a long walk to the bathroom, I _already_ have to go again."

"So that must be why every time I've seen you so far, you're full of piss and vinegar." Donald hoped deep down that the quip he suspected Walter Becker might have responded with was true to him. It felt like it, the way it suddenly lit up in his brain, in that certain way he didn't feel as often in his absense.

"I'll remember to never turn you loose with Gregg. He gave me plenty of childish humor up in Colorado while I was recovering." A closer look from his new perspective on the ground revealed that a bottle of antidepressants lay knocked over and uncapped on the floor beside the mound of blankets Donald sat in. 

Neal was torn as to what was more concerning -that Donald had been far enough out of it to spill the pills and just leave them there, or what they were intended for.

"Jesus Christ!" He winced as the emphasis made his own head throb. "How many did you take of those?"

"More than I care to admit. Or than you need to know. Still not enough to get through the day functioning right apparently." Donald cast a bitter glare down at the spilled pills. "I've been sick for a month straight, so there's no point in tossing them. It can't do much worse to me."

Neal sighed and reached around the blanket pile to help Donald pick up the pills and put them back in the bottle. His fingers were still shaky and weak enough that he dropped every other pill he attempted to pick up.

"Guess it's nice to know I'm not the only one here who's fucked up. If you lipped off any more at me for it, I could turn it around on you right quick." Donald felt torn too. Part of him wanted to try imagining and repeating what caustic and far-less childish crack Walter might have had for Neal's pathetic coordination in that moment -not that his own was much better when his arms felt like deadweights from fever. The other part wanted to make a begrudging show of gratefulness to Neal for being bothersome enough to pull him from his hideout of misery, _without_ stupidly asking if he was okay -as if the answer wasn't obvious -and for not speaking generic inanities of reassurance that would only serve to make his skin crawl.

"Well, that easily goes both ways, so I'm not looking to start shit," Neal offered. "Unless it's in the name of fun and good trouble, and if that's what's gonna make the boat float, fire away."

Giving up his internal debate with the lack of heart for both options, Donald groaned.

"I shoulda known you'd be dangerous even while hung-up. See, now I know what I was seeing. You're jonesing for a fix of 'good trouble' as you call it."

"I wouldn't think I can't say the same for you. And that goes the same way whether you're saying I look bored or that I look like shit right now. Let me guess -panic attack landed you down here?"

"Is'that what they call it more often in the Midwest, or are you saying you had to have the neceth'ssary torture they call 'therapy' too?"

"Necessary torture." Neal shuddered. _"Yyyyughhh_. You definitely hit the nail on the head with THAT."

"At least after a year you go numb to it and it's just going through the motions. You can talk to yourself and pretend you're not insane because someone else is in the room. I guess if there was one thing it does for paranoia, that's it."

"No, I only went through it for two months," said Neal. "My bandmates talked me into it when I wanted to push it off 'till it was a last resort. In hindsight, it probably saved me from having to deal with it longer, and kept me from having to do rehab in a facility instead of on my own."

"Lucky bastard," Donald snorted. "What landed you in the trap?"

"Came home from tour to an empty house and a letter on the kitchen counter; as generic a 'Dear John, I regret to tell you' letter could be." Neal spoke with a deadpan, except on his imitation of the letter, which he delivered with a falsetto and as flourishing a tone he could force. "Wife up and left me. And ran off with our band's hometown supplier of substances I likely shouldn't have to name to anyone here."

Donald's eyes widened before he failed at attempting a smirk.

"Well, I've seen and heard a few things, believe me. For all the consequences of hangups, I gotta give it to you; that's not one I've ever heard. _Ouch_."

"I guess I could have said it was still somewhat fair. It was pretty easy to let yourself be pretty screwed up then. As long as you could perform, you could just say 'yeah, I'm a little drunk, but look at that poor bastard over there' -find someone worse than you, you know," Neal admitted.

"That was how we operated at one time too."

"Except her argument for leaving me was that she was fed up with my drinking, which is pretty funny with what she did. As if the pot dealer was any better."

"It's a shame you probably didn't get to hear how it ended. Maybe you'd have gotten the last laugh."

"Yeah, well when the guys found me at the studio the next day, get _this._ It's just hunky dory that I went off the deep end and got too smashed to remember it, 'cause it would be funny if I could now. But to the word of Bruce, Alan, and Kevin, the first thing said when they asked me 'what's wrong' was 'I am really gonna miss that guy'."

This time, Donald managed a proper smirk, and it gave way to a full snort of amusement rather than sarcasm.

"A two in one breakup. Sounds strategic if you ask me, assuming she had any strategy to that decision. Those days were really something. I thought they were long over, but as it turns out..."

"As we say between us in REO, life as we know it can change on you pretty quick," said Neal. "This isn't even life as we know it, so who knows where IT could turn on us. I'd rather it turn than stay here, 'cause I know some of us are 'tired of getting nowhere'."

"Y'think? At least it seems to me you lived through everything here."

"Not immediately, depending on your definition of living. First I dealt with it the same way I'd always dealt with it. Too much booze and passing out in bed early. Just more than usual, so Kevin pitched a fit and Bruce had me come stay with him. Then I woke up one night at his house unable to breathe and watching the room spin -which surprise, surprise, that was my welcome into this world. Had convulsions and made a big scene I don't remember, and when I came to, Bruce and I looked at each other and said enough. Cue the self-rehab and torture ...at least I got out of repeating that for going into lapse, but we're still trying to figure out what happened, so there's that instead." Neal crossed his arms over his chest. "So then, what's the story behind how _you_ got here?"

"Y'know, with what you're telling me, I'm beginning to think _what or whoever_ is controlling this place is trying to scare the collective crap out of all of us on first arrival," said Donald with venom growing in his tone. "Get us expecting the worst so we can all be fucking paranoid of everything we know, and don't know either for that matter."

"I wouldn't write the possibility off."

"I don't have anything interesting to tell you about how I got here. I just arrived at some point after I'd finished _The Nightfly_ -long enough into it for me to already be taking desperate measures, and not long enough to resort to soundtrack production. Hard to say when in there -it all runs together. Writer's block, going out at night for reasons I don't need to repeat, near-constant sickness, antidepressants, panic attacks, necessary torture, paranoia -over whatever the hell was there I decided I had to barricade myself from. Seemed stupid when there was nothing interesting going on around me to be a source of it. But then I've also wondered if that could be it. It's almost like screwed-up stuff was forming in my mind because there wasn't anything else to think about. Not that anything's changed much here, _clearly._ ". Donald motioned to the bed frame above him. "Aside from the scenery and town being pretty different." 

He gave Neal a stinging side-eye -though not an entirely malicious one. 

"And _you_ making it a point to go digging in what I know."

Neal raised his eyebrows and closed his eyes. _'Tough noogs,'_ he seemed to say.

"I could almost say I wish it was more exciting. And hate to admit that you're probably right about that thing you call 'good trouble'. I might have faired better having something to put my screwed up mind around."

Deciding that no one in the room -Neal included -had a fair right to give him a hard time for feeling weak with illness, Donald folded the back of his bedding pile into a thicker stack to prop up on and slid down on his back. However, the move backfired almost immediately, triggering sudden drainage down the back of his throat. Which brought on a fit of coughing that left him dry-gagging so hard that his shoulder blades jerked together every couple of hacks.

Neal respectfully turned his head away and placed a hand beside his face like a blinker on a horse to prove he wasn't watching what was humiliating enough.

"...Are y'fuckin'... serious'th...?" Donald choked out the rhetorical question, now trying to sit back up as fast as he lay down before he asphyxiated. No sooner than he was up, he was swiping at watery eyes, and feeling despondent enough that had he been alone, he'd have been hard-pressed to keep from weeping. The spasms between coughs tried to pull him closer to the edge, tempting him toward it instead of the dry, empty laugh he'd taken to when he didn't have the tears left to shed.

Maybe it was from dwelling on the painfully monotonous routine he was stuck in, which had him all but bored to tears and sick now. Or from being doped up on his pills while suffering from an adrenaline-hangover. Or maybe it was the sense that there was somebody who understood a mere _half_ of him, and far more than anyone carrying out the necessary torture with nods and meaningless murmurs of 'I understand'. 

But while he was finding a sense of security with Neal faster than most, he wasn't _that_ comfortable -and doubted he ever would be as he swallowed the terrifying, helpless feeling, along with the stomach acid trying to sneak its way up by the middle of his coughing jag.

"Guess twice of this... just wasn't enough for today," he muttered as the spasm finally faded, and took the surge of emotions away with it.

"Gonna live?"

"Neal, what is it that even makes you want to get answers for me? There has to be someone else here has more to give you without being the fucked up bastard I am -unless you really are that bored."

"I'm sure there's someone else who could tell me more, and I'll try to start with them talking to Mike," ceded Neal. But without having been here as long as them, I think there's more power in a like mind and someone with a similar level of understanding. Not counting the time I was in the snow, it hasn't been much longer than it has for you since I arrived. And Bruce did me a solid that night. I figured since there hasn't really been an opportunity for me to do him one of the same kind, I'd better pay one forward."

"So in all the scheming and troublemaking, you do have a conscientious side hiding in there," said Donald. "I thought you seemed like it."

"It's probably a more even deal for me to pass on to you rather than back to him," Neal mused regretfully. "I'm stubborn enough to ...quite frankly be a bit of an asshole when I feel like it-"

"-So I've seen..."

"-And Bruce never lost patience with me when I can say for sure I gave him a few hard days while I was dealing with the aftermath. Both times around."

"Well, if you want to pass me a favor, you can start with helping me figure Don Dokken out and telling me what _you_ know. You may not have seen much before whatever the heck happened with you, but I suspect you saw more than I have. The whole month I've been here, he's been stuck in his own way too." 

Donald tried to find a different position that wouldn't be so difficult to stay up in, or choke him again, and nearly whacked his head under the bed. He caught it coming and flinched down at the last second possible.

"Besides that, when I tried to talk to him earlier, he froze up, then took off without a word," he sulked. "At least I have some reason to believe he didn't freak out at me, when I was on the floor a minute later."

Neal sighed exasperatedly. "Now that that's over, you think you _might_ want to slide out from under the bed now, or maybe sit on top of it? Before you get _concussed_ too?"

"No thank you. Unless something or someone gives me a really good reason, I'm not planning to come up from here any sooner than I absolutely have to. And as much as I'd like any information you have, I'm not that desperate for it."

"Fair enough," said Neal, leaning his back against the wall by the bed. "I can wait down here. Just don't expect me to crawl under with you to tell you any more, because I've had enough of sitting in a hole. And no, I'm not getting the ibuprofen Alan left on the sink for you until I'm ready to get up and stay up."

"Y'know, if you're gonna end up in another one anytime soon, tell me, and I'd take your place without a second thought." Donald sneered, but slid himself and his pile of blankets up against the frame on the wall to settle leaning next to Neal, with just the shadow of the bed frame and a four-by-four corner support separating them.

"What can you tell me?"

"I can go back as far as June 2018. But the important stuff really started late at night on the Fourth of July..."

 

_FLASHBACK - 12:00 AM, July 5th, 2018:_

...The lightening storm that had raged outside since the firework show ended at 9:30 stopped almost immediately on the midnight strike of the clock.

"Alright, America... Birthday party's over. No more fireworks. And hopefully no frightened cats and dogs with injuries downstairs tomorrow either." 

Bruce Hall reached over to the side table in the corner between a couch and the window and switched on a lamp. It lit up the living room of the apartment and cast a glare on the window to obscure their view on the night as it went still.

"Ugh, _Bruuu-uce!"_ Alan reached over and playfully shoved their bassist as he drew his name out in a long whine. "You think you could have given us a warning before blinding us?"

"Yeah, Bruce! Glenn might have appreciated that." Kevin motioned to Glenn Hughes, who was indeed wincing at the sudden switch between dark and light.

Bruce smiled sheepishly and ducked his head as his cheeks stained pink.

REO Speedwagon had been camped out together in the upper level apartment for most of the evening, but it had only been an hour ago when Glenn arrived with Don Dokken, and under the latter's watch and care.

When they'd come in, Glenn looked tired out, and in desperate need of a rest to catch his bearings, but he had a light in his eyes that had not been there since the start of his time in the split world. He even had a nostalgic smile. Through the exhaustion and undeniable pain he'd been through in his detox journey, he looked to have come a mile in happiness, regardless of how many more he still had to go.

Gary had been thrilled to see him looking so happy, and sat down with Glenn, encouraging him to talk about it if he felt the need to while they watched lightening streak the dark sky, forming natural fireworks in the night.

"It's the most fun I've had in over a decade," Glenn eagerly told. "Gary, you must meet Robbin Crosby, first chance you've got. He's not of my era, but he's an amazingly kind soul, he understood me and didn't think any worse of me for my demons, and I think he knew Tommy was there and tried to give what he wanted. Tommy might not have been here in person, but he was there in spirit, stronger than ever, and it was a wonderful time for both of us."

"If he comes and joins us here some night, you'll have to introduce us, Glenn. We'll have to have ourselves a little party together."

In contrast from Glenn's purely ecstatic mood -which was a complete switch from a few days before when he'd had a slip and retreated into crushing guilt for getting his hands on a bindle of cocaine while Don was out of town doing album work -Don was the reserved one tonight. He seemed to have taken a step backward. Or realized he wasn't as far as he thought he'd been.

Whichever was the case, he looked lost, and his stoic exterior was visibly cracked and unstable. He'd willingly removed the security of his sunglasses in the dark of the house, and his eyes were faintly rimmed in red, with puffy lower eyelids.

Instead of recapping the night's events, he retreated to a corner by another window where Neal had isolated himself, staring off into space and lost in thought.

It wasn't until the storm settled and the lights were back on that both of them seemed to snap out of their thoughtful trances, and that Don finally spoke.

"How're you holding up, Neal?"

"In terms of recovering from you know what?" Neal met him with a facetious tone, already knowing the answer. "I've been better, but I've been way worse too. All I can say is I survived it then, so I'm gonna assume I will here, even if it does suck."

"From what I've seen myself, _usually_ that's how it goes." Don sighed, letting the slightest hint of pain show in his eyes. "I hope the same is true right now for me. For you and me both. 'Cause it's not like we need worse, and we certainly didn't ask for it."

It was then that Gary left Glenn's side and made his way over to kneel down beside Don.

"What's going on tonight, Don? You're having a hard time with something; I can tell."

It was hard to see in the dark without being at the right angle, but Don gulped hard and gripped one edge of his chair hard.

"You guys have already heard the gist of how the band broke up. I did fucking _everything_ to block three people out of my mind for a year, and pretend I didn't care about them. Tonight, Mick was right in front of me for all of two minutes, and it was enough to prove all of that was a God damned lie."

His tone was dry and flat, and his expression was stoic, but the pain was screaming silently underneath it, along with the agony of all the logic he'd justified an entire year's actions with being entirely wiped out in one night.

Unable to hold back with his caring nature, Gary started to reach an arm around Don, but he flinched, and understandingly, Gary took a step back. 

"Now I either have to get things fixed with him or end it. Or it's gonna drive me nuts. And that's _enough_ ," Don insisted. "I really don't need to hang on this any longer tonight."

"That's fine," assured Bruce, coming over on the other side of the window and standing behind Neal. "We have a good enough understanding of that in this camp. You don't have to tell us anything unless you feel like it later."

Bruce had his arms over the back of Neal's chair. After taking a hesitant look behind himself that suggested he wouldn't do what he did next with anyone else, Neal leaned back into Bruce's arms and sighed contentedly.

"But hey, I still am gonna say that I hope you can get things right with Mick," Gary suddenly added.

Don shrugged. "At least I know we fixed it between us before, so hopefully again. I've seen others who didn't and don't want that ending."

Gary nodded empathetically, sneaking a forlorn look at Kevin when he wasn't watching.

"Think it'll work the same way here?" Alan paced back and forth in thought. "It seemed to for us, but one time isn't really enough for us to know much."

"I don't know. It doesn't always, but most of the time, it does. Look at Glenn and decide for yourself. Lately, I feel like I have a better sense of control with what's been happening, and I'll do whatever I can to make it work the way I want it."

"Is it any easier with that?" Neal perked up. 

"Depends in what you think is easier. I'm not saying it's been a fun time, because going through this again as a whole hasn't exactly been in my favor -or at least not yet, for whatever reason there is." Don sighed. "Tonight threw me for a loop on that. But I still think I'm hanging pretty well. Considering what I've seen. The standards weren't exactly high to begin with -let me be real."

"What do you mean, _'sense of control'?"_

The way Kevin asked the question -fast speech pattern, interrogatory tone, holding his head high and making air quotation marks with his fingers -made him sound ready to knock down and jump all over Don's suggestion with disbelief, despite any examples he could have given from his experience.

Apparently, Don felt that it was _exactly_ what Kevin was going to do, and he wasn't having any of it -especially not from someone who had hardly seen anything in the split world. And he felt lucky enough to have some backup, whether or not anyone was fully on his side.

"Kevin," Alan warned with a sigh. "Don knows what he's been through, and you can only believe what he says -you won't know any better than that."

"That's why I want to know," Kevin insisted. "Because from what I know so far, it doesn't make any sense. I don't _get it."_

"Clearly. And you know what? I'm not gonna tell you," Don decided, sitting up straight in his chair and scooting forward to the edge with his hands ready to push off the sides. "You're new to this; you ought to figure it out like everyone else. This is going on year two for me, but if you're going to act like you already know better, forget it, Kevin. I can already tell you're not gonna hear it, so what's the point?"

Alan sighed again, and looked torn as to how to stay neutral in _this_ rookie vs. veteran argument, being a rookie himself who hardly knew the veteran any better.

"Come on, Don," he pleaded, "he got a little cocky, but don't be like _that_ to him."

Bruce held up his hand hesitantly. "Hey, Don, I'll hear you out. I'd be interested to hear if you want-"

"No. I believe you that you're interested, but I'm not telling when you're offering to listen _now_ because you feel bad and you're trying to be _nice."_

Alan shook his head and held his hands up at Bruce and Kevin.

_Just leave it alone. He's clearly had a painful night and needs some time._

"I can tell you one thing about it -is that the control in the situation depends just as much on everyone else involved, so don't think figuring it out for yourself will make everything perfect." With a hard push off his hands, Don got up from his seat. "Robbin will be here for me to see. But unless he and his guys manage to push some major changes that I don't see them making, I'll still have to see him go through what he did toward the end, and it really sucks."

"Wait, I don't get it," started Kevin. "What happened to Robbin; how'd he go out?"

"I'm not gonna talk about that either with some people being here in this room," Don retorted. "And especially not right now when a lot of things might be hitting home for some of you."

He cast a cutting sidelong glance to Gary, who slowly closed his heartache-filled eyes and nodded knowingly. As much as he'd wished for better, he knew Robbin hadn't gotten the one-night reunion and last-minute resolution with his bandmates that he had.

"Leaving?" asked Neal, sounding a bit sullen, but understanding too.

Don nodded. "Glenn and I have things to deal with back at the house. Thank God!"

He pulled on a raincoat, grabbed an umbrella, and made sure Glenn was ready and looked stable enough in his run-down state for departure. All whilst looking as though departure was the only chance of his own stability.

"Careful in the flash-flooding out there," Bruce warned, innocent and helpless as the two made their way toward the door.

_-END FLASHBACK-_

 

"...He and Glenn left after that," explained Neal. "Stormed right out -didn't see them again for another week."

"No kidding." Donald snorted. "I'd leave too!"

"Yeah, I'd bet you would. Don may have a short fuse for some things, but I've seen you just about take off and fly when it's barely gotten started."

"Yeah, and it didn't stop you from running after. It's a shame Glenn isn't here. He seems like he'd tell us what he knows from his side without any prodding." Knowing Glenn had been self-detoxing under Don's watch, Donald found himself wanting his perspective, even if it wasn't directly helpful for the main question he and Neal were trying to answer.

Still, he already knew Glenn's answers could at best only give him a tenth of the peace of mind he really hoped for.

"Things are tense between him and the rest of Deep Purple, but if David Coverdale visits, maybe he'll get him to stop in for a bit."

"Who's Robbin? Sounds like he's an important part of this too."

"Robbin Crosby played guitar in a band called Ratt -they were pretty close with Dokken. Overwhelmingly nice guy, but he had a heroin addiction that got him kicked out of his band -and AIDS from a dirty needle."

Donald winced. His evil-spirited mind could have made jokes, but he knew the ugly truth of the drug too well to have the gut.

"He was confined at home and lonely while most of his friends were on tour, and that's how Don got the idea to celebrate Independence Day with him -and to bring Glenn, because they were in the same boat," continued Neal. "And being who he is, Mick showed up as a surprise-"

"I have seen him. No need to go to the exhaustion of trying to describe how crazy he is," Donald cut in. "He's the type who terrifies me. But he's great. I dare say I like him when he's on the opposite side of the room and there's something solid between us."

Neal couldn't help but grin at the contradiction, because he wasn't sure how to describe Mick in words either.

"He is great. And he and Don just click really well, like no one else in the band -I'm not gonna explain because I know you get what I'm saying."

"Too well."

"Needless to say, Don didn't know either, and when Dokken broke up, he and Mick didn't exactly go separate ways in the best terms."

"Poor fucking bastard," Donald muttered bitterly. "I can tell you exactly why he looked so stricken that night, but you probably have a sufficient idea too, if you're as sharp as you seem."

"That's subjective, but I've seen enough shit go down in our band to know enough, and-"

Neal stopped short, and Donald clocked his head on the bed frame with a soft thud and hiss of profanities as they both startled. Raucous coughing echoed from above and across the room as Jeff Pilson came to consciousness lying on his back and curling in on himself with the force of the attack, which was every bit as strong as the one Donald had.

"If only we realized this shit we're in now would make all _that_ look tame," he retorted, pressing the heel of his palm to his head, and watching as an extra-hard gag prompted Jeff to sit up and spring down his ladder. He ran out of the room with an uneven gait and tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, coughing and dry-heaving all the way.

"Poor Jeff." Neal meant it. The guy was dealing with enough -being kindhearted apparently hadn't spared him any pain -and he hoped the panic didn't rear its ugly head for him while he was trying to get down the hall and already fighting nausea.

"We had Robbin come hang with us a few times in lapse after that. He doesn't spend much time here; my guess with what I've seen with him is he's trying to live it up as much as he can now that he's got a way to do it again. Gary's the same way, but he had so much more time without us before the end, he tries to spend a lot more time with us because that's where he wanted to be, as unfortunate as it was that it didn't happen."

"Boy, don't let those two go at it with Mick if you're wise," Donald remarked. "They wouldn't know what to do with themselves, or remember how to be quiet. Never mind that -we'll be thankful if they don't burn the building down together and laugh at it."

"Too late. Already happened. Gary was a riot with Mick and Robbin, for sure." Neal shook his head and grinned ruefully. "Three of a kind. He never met them before this, but he clicked with them like he'd known them his whole life. Not that it's unlike Gary to be that way. It's like he was never gone here."

"Doesn't seem unlike it for more than just him. Seems to be the norm here, from what I've seen so far."

It was true. Donald's inhibitions were as low as they only got with the very few he let in close, and his next admission to Neal wasn't one he had loose lips on.

"For all the shit that happens here -maybe I could find an escape like Gregg and some of the others. But right now I'm staying for Walt. And I'm willing to wait it out again, and keep being stuck here if he's coming eventually."

He left out the scared and uncertain conditions to his statement. _If he was gone for good here same as before the split, I could hardly care less. What's gone is gone forever. But I can't NOT wait if there's a bat's chance in hell..._

"Well, for the reasons I have to question it, I stay here for Gary." Neal seemed to know anyway.

"It'd be nice to have some control over _my life_ though."

"That's what we're fighting for, and whether or not he knows how to consistently get it, you already saw it in Don before I told you."

"I bet it takes even more than just us with him to get it, with what you said about before he left. About Robbin at the end. If you're looking for good trouble, we're looking to get up to plenty if this is gonna work."

Alan knocked on the door and opened it up, effectively stopping further exchange there.

"Oh!" He stopped short, somewhat surprised at the sight that greeted him. "Jeff said you two were up. I wasn't expecting he meant on the floor, but that's fine by me if you're hanging alright."

"That's subjective, depending on how you define that," said Donald, leaning forward to look out from under the bed. This time, he moved with exaggerated caution to not come up too fast under the frame.

"I don't know, Alan," Neal deadpanned, before forcing a grin and pointing up at him. "Considering what we know about each other, I'd be more worried about you than me."

Alan sighed, grinned, and shook his head.

"Yeah, you're _definitely_ alright if you're still coming after me. Look, most of us are in the lounge. I've got food on up in the kitchen if you're feeling up to it after -well, I don't know what that was, but you probably know what I mean. I'll consider bringing it to Reb, but if Jeff got to me and managed to track down Don with the ridiculous fever he has going, you're clearly not too sick to get your heinie down the hall, Trout."

Donald snorted as Alan left, noting the slightest tint of red to Neal's rounded cheeks -which paired with his snub nose made him look comically more innocent than he was, or ought to have looked for his wit. Though, it was far from the greatest anomaly between innocent looks and sharp wit Donald knew.

"Alright," said Neal, climbing up from the floor and rolling his eyes. "If you're staying, you'll have to excuse me for awhile. Alan opened a restaurant after he retired from the band, and I'm not passing that offer up, even if it is far away. It's not like I wasn't gonna have to go through the hall sooner or later, so I might as well have it be on my terms."

"Give me ten minutes and maybe I'll work up the will to follow you for once."

"I'll be up there awhile if you do." Neal looked suspiciously pleased. "Actually, that wasn't bad information we just got from _him._ If Jeff found Don, he's back and probably alright for us to try our luck with again in the next few days."

"Some luck. It'll take all of it just to get over whatever the hell hit here today." Donald sniffed with contempt and congestion as he finally slid out from under the bed, still with no visible intent to get up. 

"Can you help me get through to him?"

Neal tossed his hands up as he turned to leave.

"What's left to try?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a trip back to my old story, "Regrowth" [*blinks back tears of sweet nostalgia*]


	7. April 22nd, 2019: Return of the Veteran of the Psychic Wars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"...Lovely to see you again, my friends!" "...This is a collection of sorts. Everything relating to the subject of where we are now and defining it..."_. Allen Lanier and the rest of Blue Oyster Cult return from exile, and much has happened over the weekend. Are Reb Beach and Jeff Pilson getting a handhold on the rope to recovery? Is Don Dokken trying to break through his guard against telling what he knows about the split world? Has Kevin Cronin submitted to following those above him, or is he trying to ride coattails to a level of control? One thing is sure, Neal Doughty and Donald Fagen have a solid alliance together, and cannot pass up what Allen readily offers to their cause.

_4/22/19_

After surviving the weekend, the strangest sense hung over the lapsing split world that everything frozen in stasis was about to change drastically.

Maybe it was because everyone who'd spent the night in the lounge in favor of the bedroom woke up to the opening bass strike and harmonized lead of "Burnin' For You", blasting through the hallway at 6:45 in the morning.

No one seemed angry about it, despite the ungodly hour of the morning -on Monday, no less. Ray Thomas and Mike Pinder slowly turned heads toward each other from where they lay next to each other on the couches they'd pushed together in the lounge, and shared a blissful smile through half-opened eyes at the sound.

"I believe some of our friends are back," Mike murmured sleepily.

"As different a bunch as they are, I must say, I've missed them quite a bit," said Ray. "They make it very interesting here."

And interesting it soon was, as it only took an hour for the Bouchard brothers to emerge, chasing each other up and down the hallway as though their feet were truly on fire, fighting non-stop in a harmless sense before the sun was fully up.

Ray was there to intercept the others on a less wild arrival from the stairwell door.

"Lovely to see you again, my friends!" 

John Lodge found the reunion and excitement all very endearing. Even more when Buck Dharma and Eric Bloom threw themselves down on a couch to have a first proper impromptu jam together in over a month -the latter laughing far more than he usually did as Buck happily joked around with an untuned guitar.

Allen Lanier sat back in the lounge in a chair and just watched, waiting to see everything unfold, and to see the ones he wanted to find most. He was already aware they likely wouldn't be up for quite a bit longer -they'd arrived mere hours after some of them had gone to bed -and resigned to sitting back and having a slow morning in the corner, which gave him a peaceful distance and vantage point, but the blissful mental stimulation of being directly surrounded again -and able to get a response if he requested it -was something he was equally pleased to have.

"Some place you must have traveled to," Mike remarked with a knowing smile. "If you see fit to tell any tales, I've got both ears open to you."

Allen shrugged as he kicked his feet up on the table casually.

"It depends on what you suspect the source to be. I have plenty of interesting tales to discuss, though I don't think you'd find any pertaining to where we've been for the past month to be so captivating."

"Fair enough, mate."

While Buck, Joe, Eric, and Albert would all ask for what had happened in their absence -and all cheered when they heard from Ray that REO Speedwagon made it through their Colorado storm -Allen enjoyed listening to the different perspectives of everything he'd watched and seen, right up through the very last day. He got more perspectives as everyone else began slowly waking up over the course of the later morning. Mike and Ray's mystical and poetic storytelling, Ian Paice's straightforward and to-the-point list of events, Alan Gratzer's measured take that considered how he saw things as well as how he suspected each other person involved might have seen differently -even Kevin Cronin's dramatic ramble was entertaining.

The worst of the illness-borne fevers had continued through Friday the 19th, along with dull headaches forming the hangovers from the panic that had dictated the day before. But when a tornado warning screeched over the radio and dark storm clouds rolled through with roaring wind gusts, Gary Richrath pulled his guitar out, entered the sick room, and managed to cajole Neal into jamming with him on his portable keyboard until they were effectively distracted from their unpleasant feelings.

It was a beautiful and rare moment when Kevin followed him in and agreed to sing some of the more obscure songs of the Mike Murphy era while they rode the storm out, with the admission he couldn't achieve quite the same feel Mike had for some particular tracks. 

Not only had Kevin and Gary fully forgiven each other for the previous day's hurt, but they could agree together on wishing Bruce was there while playing the song, "Lost In a Dream" that Bruce had contributed to writing a few albums before joining REO. It was a fun jam, but the absence of the bass line screamed through the room, accentuated by a bass standing lonely in the closet next to Reb's belongings -presumably belonging to the still-absent Kip Winger -and the painfully relevant lyrics to half of those confined to the room.

As he sometimes did when captivated in the song, which happened twice as fast while under the haze of congestion, Neal silently mouthed the lyrics that Gary and Kevin traded off, singing them to himself in his head. When his fingers locked into the pattern of the groove well enough that he could let his eyes wander from the keys, he found himself glancing to the side of the room, where he connected with Donald's inquisitive gaze from his hiding place under the bed.

_"Lost, lost in a dream; it's a dream,"_ Kevin began.

Gary picked the next line up. _"And I think, it's some evil scheme."_

_It IS a scheme of sorts,_ Allen thought as he watched over, silently wishing he could be part of the jam. He didn't sing often, but could have pulled off Mike's vocal sound. Though, he admitted, it was a hopeful sign that Kevin was showing more potential to cooperate in wake of the panic.

_"They say that I don't feel, what I feel..."_

_"...But I know that this ain't no game..."_

Kevin and Gary seemed to regard each other as they traded lines, and there was a concession Kevin hadn't seemed to have in the past. A reluctant admission of some level of denial, and a fear in what they were experiencing that his stubborn optimism wasn't sure how to approach.

_"What am I, supposed to lie? That ain't what I'm saying..."_ Kevin's wavering vocal tone would never match the sassy, talk-style drawl that was Mike's, but as he got into channeling out his concerns through the words Mike left behind, the attitude channeled out in his gestures with his body and hands as he shrugged, then emphatically waved a thought off.

_"They're telling me, that I could be, a little insane,"_ Gary replied, with just a faint glimmer of hurt left in his eyes. 

By now, the keyboard line had become more aggressive and heavy on the lyrics. With his practice keyboard set up on a chair above where he sat on the floor, Neal was hunched over with his arms stuck straight out from his shoulders, and he was pitching himself forward into each chord strike like he was trying to break out of yet another impossible snow bank plaguing him in his dreams.

Gary continued as Kevin forfeited the next line, scrunching his eyes and forcing his words out with the grit of frustration.

_"I tell myself to PULL MYSELF together again,"_

_"Cause I ain't been the same,"_ sang Kevin, physically wilting with resignation to compensate for the melodic sigh that a drawling-type voice could deliver words in stronger than his own.

He then slid back and leaned against the bed post as Gary and Neal jammed out, with Neal setting a different aggressive rhythm on the keys that allowed Gary to take off flying on the frets.

Still mildly ill, and looking like a person who could have slept for a year straight and still been tired in light of whatever was happening in his camp, Don Dokken sat up on the edge of his bunk and looked over Kevin's shoulder with a raised eyebrow.

"A lot of us haven't been quite the same here, kid."

_What a funny thing to behold,_ thought Allen, scribbling some notes in his book. _The variation of time in this place. In the standard world, Don Dokken would have no place calling Kevin Cronin 'kid'. Kevin is just short of two years his senior... BUT, here, Kevin seems roughly himself from '78 or '79, and Don has been reliving events from '99. A much larger age gap than before -perhaps this will make a difference from their past interactions? Or not...? Though, considering how much longer he has been here than Kevin... In lapse, age is even more relative than in our world of never fully growing up..._

"No, we haven't," said Kevin mournfully. "Strangest thing about it -and the part that drives me nuts, to be honest -is how similar it sometimes is to what we saw before. It's just the slightest twist that makes it different; it might not feel so _weird_ if it was totally different. But it's the second time I've seen something almost exactly how it happened -the only difference with this storm was Neal getting trapped, but everything down to Gary and I going up before the others to write, and the tension, and-"

"I get the point. Trust me; I've seen what you're telling me -and then some. And you seem to know more about it than you did last year when you were new to it -and more willing to discuss it," Don ceded, seeming to open up. "Hey, if makes it easier when you know part of what to expect. Get used to what it's like here, and you can predict most of it."

"I try to 'roll with the changes'." Kevin forced an uneasy smile. "It's a little hard at first."

"That's one way, but you can push your own changes too. Sometimes it just sucks, but sometimes it's not so bad if you know what to do with what you've seen before."

"But just with what it was before whatever _this_ is, sometimes you still get taken entirely by surprise?"

"Yep, and that's where you just have to choose which battles you're going to fight in a 'dream' -which ones you're _willing to_ , at least. I'm one to fight it, but it works itself out in some other way left alone. When it's a surprise, it's just as much a risk as old times." Don shrugged. "It only took you seven months, but you guys got Neal out of the snow. You're learning it; don't you forget it."

Kevin regarded Don with a skeptical look, but as the more cautious sophomore than the naive freshman, he nodded and backed off rather than arguing over what he struggled to believe.

_Well, THAT is convenient. Maybe Don will open up easier than I thought -IF he stays like this. Nice of Cronin to make himself useful -maybe yesterday scared some sense into him, and he learned something since the night Neal told me about. Because I'd be hard pressed not to agree if they were 'telling you' you're insane in this place,_ Donald Fagen thought bitterly as he drilled through the lyrics on his own, settling on a different line that hit home more to one just getting their footing in the strange, split world. 

_I think we're ALL a little insane before dealing with half the shit here..._

He pondered the eerie relevance of the single, standalone verse that was repeated before a second guitar and keyboard jam, and tried to decide if the brevity suited the frank words, or if the song was pleading for more information. If it was, then he supposed Gary and Neal had gotten lost in their own jam deep enough to forget providing it. Or maybe the other information, questions and answers alike, could not be voiced in words, leaving the instrumental jam to try to convey it in their own language.

Oh well; they did carry it well enough to excuse the questions left behind.

_Questions we're all seeking the answer to in our own way, Fagen,_ Allen offered, still in the confines of exile. _Indeed, I believe Alan Gratzer may have struck a nerve yesterday. We ought to be grateful for any help we get from Kevin._

With Reb and Jeff far too sick to perform, Dokken went without a therapeutic jam as a band, but as the faint light remaining beneath the storm clouds faded with the hours of the day, Don pondered his lyric book and watched out the window, softly murmuring lyrics of the past and hesitating to trust the tiny spark of hope he felt that they might make progress soon enough.

_"...Will the sun rise when it's over? Will the sun rise, will there be a sky...?"_

While Sunday brought another washout, the sun _did_ rise on Saturday when the grip of panic was entirely over. With the sun rise, Mick Brown made his return - riding back in on his motorcycle to the lapse location to validate Don's hopes, and to tend to rescuing him from his low mood.

The latter looked hopeful for the first time in a month as he sat up in bed and leaned over for a stiff, but sincere embrace with the wild drummer.

Jeff Pilson's fever had come down enough by Saturday evening that he was lucid, and seemed calm with Mick, if still somewhat quiet and uncomfortable following their hard heart-to-heart. He and Reb kept each other company while they remained confined to the bedroom to prevent as many others from getting sick as possible, and jammed out to their favorite Aerosmith tunes once they were feeling well enough.

"Think this'll be the way forward?" asked Reb.

"I don't know. I don't want to get our hopes up too high and say that it's the answer," Jeff admitted, "but I have a good feeling, and it's a good starting point. I don't know how it's happened for you, but those usually get us _somewhere."_

"Well, let's start there and see where we go next." Reb sighed. "It's hard, but... I want to believe we can make it okay." _It's what Kip always tries to make me think..._

Saturday night also gave Donald Fagen a successful mission in his efforts gathering signatures carrying hope for Walter Becker. It was an encouraging comeback after losing not only Thursday, but the best opportunity of the week that was Friday night. The storms, fever, and panic combined proved too strong to fight with any good sense.

Still, when he fought the much gentler storm under the shield of a torn-up umbrella to get to the post office Sunday night, he still had something to show for that missed day.

Neal Doughty might have chosen to turn further toward rock and roll, but he knew jazz well enough, evidenced by his jam with Gary. And with the short note he wrote for Walter -without being asked, and offered under the condition 'only if he wanted it' -Donald silently dubbed him with an honorary "major dude" title, and officially decided he'd earned a place in his tight inner-circle. There was one person he could consider safe.

The demon was still at his door for the time being, but there was now a sturdy deadbolt in place, trustworthy of keeping it from creeping too far inside. It left a vaguely less-empty sense of hope when he parted with the napkins scrawled with regards that he'd hoarded like treasure through the week at the post office.

On Sunday, the barriers began breaking down in exile. For the first time in forty-six days, Allen was able to reach his own bandmates, pleased with the situation he was set to return to. While none of the others seemed aware of what had happened in their exiled time -confirming Allen's suspicion that they'd chosen to sleep through most of it rather than attempt to make the most of the time -they were very aware of the length of time it had been, and all glad to see each other, despite coming up loopy and drowsy from extended sleep.

Finally, on Monday, the time they'd been waiting for came, leaving Allen where he was, reconnecting and waiting to make the connection he'd anticipated most.

It wasn't until after noon that the rest of those who were allowed to come down to the lounge willingly emerged from the bedrooms. 

Having recovered over the weekend to the occasional cough here and there, Neal came down refreshed and hoping to have his first normal week in seven months, if he could make it that far without being caught up in something else beyond his wildest dreams. He didn't have a long track record to predict what lay ahead, but he had gathered enough reason for concern.

To Allen's delight, Donald had taken to following Neal whenever he ventured far from the bedroom in the times outside of his night trips -or whenever Neal wasn't having to chase him -if with the begrudging excuse of having 'nothing better to do to keep from being bored sick'. Whether by coincidence and the passage of time, or indeed benefitting from the same like-minded mental stimulation Allen had missed, his physical condition had improved drastically over the weekend. Still less recovered than Neal, he caught persistent coughing fits, but none were strong enough to leave him gagging and on the verge of tears, and his mind was beginning to clear along with his congestion.

_This couldn't have worked out better,_ Allen mused to himself, as the two arrived while Mike and Ray were outside, and while John Lodge tended to Jeff, leaving them to talk alone.

"It's been awhile, Allen," Neal quipped, feeling odd but enjoying not being on the receiving end of the remarks this time.

"I haven't been gone nearly as long as you were, Neal. But it's good to see you're back too." Allen raised his eyebrows and looked down his angular face knowingly with his delivery.

_Or I THOUGHT I wasn't receiving it this time..._ Neal thought to himself with a sigh.

"I see Regis opted to leave?"

"Yeah, just like he left us before, because we weren't getting to the top fast enough for him," said Neal sarcastically. "No, I think it's just a sign of the times we're headed for, whatever's coming next. I guess he's around somewhere, but isn't crazy enough to stay here in this chaos house. Not that I'm one to talk when I'm too lazy to go search for someplace else to stay than where we seem to just end up. I had my fill of that in 1970, even if we did get a song out of it."

"I think the chaos here can be quite stimulating." Allen waved his hand carelessly in the air. "They say the universe favors entropy. I've never seen anything to suggest otherwise. You can try to control it. Maybe you can to a point, if you and everyone else _all_ try hard enough. Not that _we_ don't try. I can't do much if some of the others won't try with me."

"Who are _you?"_ Donald stood back on the last step of the short set descending into the common area, peering across the room to Allen with the shelter of the wall, and Neal between himself and the unfamiliar being.

"That is true, Donald; I suppose you didn't get here until after I was exiled and wouldn't know," Allen mused. 

"Exiled?" This time, Neal was the confused one. "I guess you're gonna tell me that's where you and your bandmates have been."

"It isn't the same thing, but wasn't unlike your time in the snow -and was far from an accident. Since I just got out, I'd rather not think about it, but I can tell you some later when I'm less bored of the thought." He turned to Donald. "Allen Lanier -keyboardist and guitarist in Blue Oyster Cult."

"Don't believe I've heard of the band, if my memory serves me right." Donald shrugged disinterestedly. "Maybe I heard the name in passing in New York and pictured a bunch like the people over in Barrytown."

"You might have. We come from Long Island. Our style is very different from yours, unless you see fit to count odd lyrical content as a general attribute. It's fair enough that you don't recognize us -or may have been thrown by our manager's fascination with supernatural concepts."

Donald descended the last step and stood against the wall. "It's fair enough of you to not get indignant about it," he retorted, crossing his arms and settling into his hunched stance. "The way some people get all righteous'th... give me a fucking break."

"I don't think it's _you_ they have the actual problem with, per say," Allen suggested. "There are a lot of people who just _want_ to complain, and if they see a chance, whether or not there's really anything wrong, they complain because they _can_."

He turned back to Neal. "Speaking of that, Kevin was quite emphatic to say this morning that Gary came down sick last night. You can let him know I hope he recuperates soon, the next time you see him."

"I'll tell him," said Neal. "Though if you ask me, it was his own fault for not staying out of the bedroom while some of us were deathly sick. We had fun, but _you get what you PLAY for."_

"Indeed." Allen sighed. "It was quite the jam session."

"So, this exile thing or whatever you speak of..." Slowly, Donald crept up to stand by Neal and shorten the distance between himself and Allen. "Not to ask for a full conversation on it yet when you've made it clear you'd rather not talk about it, but I get the sense from what you're saying that you've been aware of what's been happening all this'th time. I also get the sense YOU are going to be persist'thent enough to make me think that HE is easy to deal with." He forcefully pointed at Neal to make his point.

"Doesn't seem entirely inaccurate from my past experiences with Allen." Neal shrugged. "Not that I'm seeking competition."

"I'd rather not, but I won't refuse to give details that are needed to understand what I'm saying. It'd be silly of me not to when I have questions of my own to ask."

"Oh?" Neal raised his eyebrows and put his hands on his hips.

"Think of exile as being right here in this room with everyone else, except it is darkened as though all the lights are out. Like the electricity went out in a storm," Allen explained. "You can see others who are not exiled, but they are not aware of you being there, and they don't seem to be able to hear anything you can say. It's almost as if you have fallen through the ground and are looking in from the outside, and I have the strangest idea that that's been done to death for some of us here -certainly for me."

"If it wasn't for too long, I'd think it would be a satisfying experience to just let the world pass by me." Donald seemed unfazed by the idea.

_"You_ can go for it," said Neal. "I've said it once and will again that I've had enough of that. Damn well, that's been done to death for me, Allen."

"It isn't unpleasant at first, at least not until boredom sets in. That is however unlike anything I've seen before here, and I have _no doubt_ in my mind that it was _intentional."_

Neal's eyes widened. He looked to Donald, pointed to him, and Donald pointed back, before turning his finger toward Allen and looked him over with mild scrutiny.

"What do _you_ think of whatever the hell this place is then? Because that doesn't sound unlike a certain conversation Neal and I had just a few days ago, and if what you're saying is true, I don't think it'd be too hard to guess _why_. IF you get past the thought of it being insane as everything else here."

"Care to sit down and talk it over?" Allen loosely motioned to the couches and tables with chairs in the common area -all of which were vacant.

Donald slid a chair out from the table he stood beside and lowered himself down whilst maintaining weary eye contact.

I tried to speak to some of you recently," Allen offered, "however, it seemed that neither of the two of you got the message, if anyone did. It would be unlikely in exile, despite how hard one might try when bored enough -which I doubt I need to assure either of you as to how hard that could be. There was one time that may have been different though. Correct me if I'm wrong, Neal, that I might have broken through your fever dream last Thursday -of which I won't repeat the details. If I did, it seemed like I might have startled you. I should say that wasn't my intention; I apologize if it might have exacerbated anything."

The abashed look of someone having been caught in a private moment briefly came over Neal, before he hid it behind his typical dour expression, and Donald shot him a demanding side-eye.

_He KNOWS something about what was happening -for sure. That's not something he could have heard from someone else and repeated. I'd hear his words with caution until we know his intentions, but maybe he can offer us what Dokken and Pinder might not._

"I'd like to say 'thank goodness that's all that was'," said Neal dryly as he took another chair, "but I'm not sure how comforting an answer that is in of itself with the state I was in that day."

Almost as if prompted, Donald broke into a dry coughing fit. Allen looked on with a bemused expression, waiting to speak once the noise settled, and Neal reached over and delivered a single, hard slap between his shoulder blades that seemed to knock the fit into submission.

"I've seen a few things, but I tend to appreciate a bit of privacy myself. I'm not planning to tell anyone about what you'd rather I not. Rest assured, while I did document quite a few events I saw as noteworthy to how strange this place is, none of those were detailed."

Donald maintained as stern a look as one could while trying to stifle nagging, residual coughs. "How long have you been dealing with the crapshoot here?" he rasped.

"June of 2017. I'm coming up on two years. Two years, and I've dealt with five events so far. I'd say I've done well, if you prefer staying in lapse to an event, or if you don't consider I was rendered entirely out of my mind the first time I arrived. Though, that's subjective to the experience, I suppose. I've heard that not all have had a bad start."

"Must be _nice,"_ Neal and Donald said in unison, before turning to each other in a double-take.

"Sure it must," said Allen. "Great minds think alike, but they have to be strong enough to fight being controlled once you're aware of it."

"Seems to me you're certain somebody's got the reins when we're thrown into events, and maybe has some influence here too." Neal shook off his previous surprise and perked up. "I know you've had a lot more time to hang out in lapse than Don and look at it from this perspective, and assuming you weren't stationary in exile, since you seemed to have done a lot of snooping around..."

Allen looked to Neal without a word for a moment, staring him down just long enough for both him and Donald to become apprehensive.

Then he grinned to show off frightening malocclusion -his eye teeth overlapped and stuck out beyond his incisors like fangs! -and gave way to a low, sinister, wheezy chuckle.

"Mind control and possession is just something that happens in supernatural tales and science fiction movies, right? At least that's what Sandy always thought when he'd write up our band's concept stories before the split -for all I know, it's undeniably real somewhere here with everything else. Life as we don't know it, and anything seems it could happen. I never thought I would one day truly be a Veteran of the Psychic Wars. It's interesting how life works out though -even in life as we usually know it. Sometimes you realize a song that your partner's wrote predicted what happens to you later without trying."

Donald scoffed. "Oh, sure enough. Just ask about some of the lyrics Walter wrote and how I see them now compared to _then_. Don't go on about what we know, but with life as we DON'T know it. By that with concepts, are you saying that what we _write_ has'th something to do with what happens here?"

"I think it depends on the situation," said Allen. "I haven't seen too many others where it's lined up for me yet. Now, Eric and Buck can beg to differ with the arrival they had, and Mike Pinder sure has stories for you if you want to hear about how that might happen in a literal sense. More often, I think lyrics have minor influence, but anything in writing as a whole is everything."

_"Any_ written documentation," repeated Donald.

"I have no doubt after my time in exile going anywhere I chose undetected," said Alan. "I happened upon a tablet of written documents with titles of information, attempted to touch it when the one for Dokken and Winger lay open, and it shut down. Five days later, it seemed none of them had gotten anywhere -and I wouldn't think to call it a coincidence when I saw other files in a list to the side for plenty of others here. I certainly saw REO Speedwagon beneath it -and that was one of the few remaining when it came back."

"Say, if you remember where this'th happened, and you tried to track down who-?"

"Wait a minute. Just, wait a minute..." Neal held his hands up, visibly tensed his shoulders, and as he spoke his next words, he steadily leaned further forward at his hips in Alan's direction. The further he leaned, the louder his voice grew.

"I'm pretty sure I heard that correctly, but I hope I'm wrong. _You're telling ME_ you got everyone here _stuck even LONGER?!"_

Donald flinched and pushed his chair away from Neal while staring him down.

As he'd already poked fun at Neal in their five short days of knowing each other, he was well aware that Neal held quite a bit of nerve -and a lot of energy to bring it out when he chose. However, he'd had yet to see such an outburst from the smaller, dour-faced keyboardist, and it almost struck him as out of character, for not having anticipated it.

"I didn't cause _you_ to be stuck any longer," offered Allen. "If anything, I held back competing traffic to you getting out of the snow, because you were out the very next week after Gregg sat here for two solid weeks. And it had been a good amount of time since Donald was out of New York."

"Didn't expect you to get cheeky, but I guess that would be an even favor to return to you," Neal muttered. "Fair. Thanks for that, Allen, but now we need to make it right for everyone else before they lose their tracks. It's good information, and maybe -just maybe, we can follow it to finding other clues, but we cannot risk touching those electronic files again."

"I can't say it made much difference being out of New York, aside from less people staring me down on the streets. However..." Donald held up a hand and rose from his chair to stand poised run at any moment he saw fit. "...I only _hope_ that I don't actually _need_ to say this. Not _a word_ about this 'wipeout' to Don Dokken, Reb, or anyone in that camp until they get themselves righted, do you get me? Not one word!"

"Don's just starting to open back up again, and Reb's already a bundle of nerves," Neal added.

Allen sighed.

"I knew it was a matter of time before one of you started copping an attitude. That's alright though, I knew what I was getting myself into. You could say I'm a little insane for that -and for some of the other moments I've had here, but I'm not insane _enough_ to tell them about screwing up if I mention seeing the tablet as evidence. Besides that, if I recall correctly, the two of you wanted to speak to Don -which now is quite the opportune time, as he seems to be getting some of his fighting spirit back -I should leave that part up to you and focus myself on the less obvious ones."

"He'll go after Don, and I'll go after Mike," said Neal. "That's what we planned. Possibly more, since this weekend threw some of us for a loop."

"I saw -unfortunately felt it too, as exile didn't detach me that far. I question if the keeper of the files did not have some unintended influence over that. Did you by chance notice it felt different from other meltdowns?"

"Aside from my big meltdown that ended up spawning _Hi Infidelity_ , I'd say so," Neal offered. "If you mean feeling like there wasn't a way to try getting a handle on it for awhile. For once, I might recommend asking Alan and Kevin. Alan said KC -actually, I'm not gonna repeat it, even though he wouldn't keep _his_ mouth shut if it was one of us and he saw it."

"You don't need to. I saw that too," said Allen, turning to Donald's disconcerted stare. "I won't ask about you in that day unless you choose to share, and I don't expect you will."

"Damn right, and get your head examined if you ever do, because then you HAVE gone far beyond whatever induced insanity we have a bat's chance in hell of controlling."

Neal smirked subtly.

"I guess it's lucky I don't, because contrapositive logic to that, we all do have a chance of controlling it, and _it's time we had some leave_." Allen fixed Donald with a thoughtful glance. "I thought you looked like you had something else you wanted to ask from me?"

"I need to know what you know from all your time here," said Donald. "Anything you can tell me. And don't go expecting me to chase'th down whatever the hell you think I should until you tell me at least a good piece of your mind, and everything you did to find it. I'm only interested because I want answers and some control in this too, and I have to be able to trust _you_ with good reason for it."

Allen peered over the top rim of his rounded glasses as he regarded the request.

"You would probably find some if the answers in time yourself. I'd be willing to bet you'd find them sooner than I did -you're certainly capable. But why delay a strong mind with enough caution to not be readily led astray?"

He then reached inside his jacket and pulled out a tattered notebook, bound in faded covers of textured, navy blue vinyl. At one time, it had undoubtedly looked very neat and professional, but it too had been thrown from its usual dignified state in the confusion and chaos that was the split world.

"This is a collection of sorts. Everything relating to the subject of where we are now and defining it. Perhaps both of you would benefit from taking a look through it for the sake of knowing what we already are aware of in common. It would be far more efficient for you to read anything further and ask me for clarification on what you do not understand than to sit here and each tell our every experience and realization here ad nauseam."

Donald startled as Allen suddenly placed the book in his hand. He held it in his fingertips and stared at it with excess caution -almost as if it would explode.

"The two of you are not the only ones here I plan to share it with, though you are the first, and I will have control over who. All our efforts could be destroyed should it fall into the wrong hands, so I ask that the two of you look through it in a safe, secluded place. Your bedrooms are not private enough."

"There are a few places outside where hardly anyone goes," Donald muttered, looking to Neal. "Of course, you'd be a fool to go out there in all that muck now."

"I think I know a place inside here that Mike mentioned," said Neal. "Let's hope I can find it -and that it's not locked."

"Mike is correct," said Allen. "And while you will not get stuck in that place as I was stuck with my own bandmates, I probably owe you a warning that the environment isn't much different."

He reached behind the couch and pulled out the battery-powered lantern he'd carried for over a month, and handed it over, along with a key from his pocket.

"This should be what you need. First floor -just around the bend of the hallway from here. While you look, I will see that my own have not gotten up to too much trouble already." Allen stood up then and stalked off.

"He's a strange character," Donald remarked. "Not that I haven't heard the same thing."

"You and I have probably been told enough times to bleed from the ears. Let's go find this place." Neal jumped off and took off in his odd, fast-gait.

"You know," said Donald, catching up to him, "You said Gary changed the name of one of those songs last minute to 'Take it On the Run' on his own decision, but being around you for a week, I could beg to differ."

Neal snorted. "Never thought of it that way, but I wouldn't put it past him. He got into the band chasing our car with his guitar every day until we let him try out."

He stopped in front of a blank, closet door, which was wider than most others. "This has gotta be it."

"I get the strangest sense we're getting up to trouble," said Donald. "Which is most of the time, so it probably is. I'll just hope it's 'good trouble' as you call it. You wanted it on Thursday -you're gonna get it now."

"Oh, I'm sure I am. And if it floats the boat, it'll have to do. One thing's for sure; we're not gonna be bored with Allen around." Neal turned the lock and pushed the door open.

"I would agree, but your confidence throws me." Donald switched the lantern on and held it up, illuminating the room.

Neal ducked past him through the doorway and took a look.

To the left, there were several storage cabinets and racks of supplies to the building. To the right was a desk, and strangely enough, an electric keyboard tucked behind the door.

"I can't decide whether to thank him for giving us access here, or to chew him out for not telling us about it when I was here before going to Colorado," he muttered.

"It doesn't do me much good with the writer's block." Donald took a cautious look down the hallway to see the coast clear, and closed the door behind them. "Oh well -if a miracle strikes overnight and tomorrow's a cold day in hell, it's here."

Neal pulled the notebook from the inside of his own jacket and placed it down on the surface of the keyboard, which stayed silent with the power switch off, but still felt far more a welcoming work surface than the desk. Then, settling down on one end of the piano bench, he motioned to the book and looked over his shoulder.

"I'm nearly as green in the horns as you are here, so it doesn't matter much. You want the honors?"

Gingerly, Donald placed the lantern down on the corner of the piano top and sat down beside Neal. 

"Why the hell not?"

He flipped open the cover, to the first page dated to July of 2017 and shifted the notebook so that the page was centered between them and in the path of the light as they began to travel through Allen's war stories.


	8. The Pretzel Logic of a Catch-22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Log Entry Author -DONALD FAGEN. "...Writing is like being in the studio. There is time to think through the most effective way of conveying the message... ...If the events that take place in this so-called split world are driven by writing as suspected, what can we imply about our controller from my experience put together with Allen and Neal? How often are these events written over and over before they are complete...?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Donald Fagen is a snide character, and suffered from depression, anxiety, and paranoia in the 80s. Readers, forgive his biting words and take it for dark humor -it's just his nature, and none reflect the author (controller's) own thoughts.
> 
> Catch-22 reference belongs to Joseph Heller.

_Date: 4/23/19_

_Log entry author -DONALD FAGEN._

 

Neal Doughty told me not to start off with a disclaimer. (Quote: "There's no NEED when Allen protects this as well as he does.") And he's probably _right._

But damn it, it feels _good_. It feels good to create a verbal shield to at least think that I _tried_ to cover my ass when my mind is plagued with this paranoia shit. So tough shit. Or whatever the hell Neal says. 'Tough noogs'? Sounds pretty stupid, you know. Being less direct, I could say it strikes as more sarcastic. Dare I say it's growing on me? Forget about it. It's more likely I'm bored to tears with what's in my own head -whatever of it that hasn't twisted back around on me to wreak havoc -as Lanier described in his entry from a week ago, and it's just something different. Whatever. Tough _noogs_ , Neal. I'm all for this getting up to 'good trouble' thing you mention, but I'm doing it my own way.

So to be frank, I'm not exactly thrilled with leaving evidence in physical writing (particularly under pressure from Lanier to add to his singular collection) for somebody to possibly track down later. Perhaps the wrong person. And maybe it's where in time my state of mind is standing. But not only did I retreat to the hideout to add my confessions to this compilation, I asked Neal to sit in the hallway and stand guard too.

[I'm thankful enough if I can merely _consider_ trusting anyone without committing to it, but I haven't found a reason to doubt my decision on him _yet_. He's had plenty of experience coping with demons on his doorstep, or as his dialect goes, riding out storms. Whatever. We understand enough, because he's sitting with his back to the door on the other side right now, without requesting a reason.

He doesn't click with me the way Walter did, and won't ever come close, but his madness is compatible enough to run for with mine. And he's making this strange, lapsing split world bearable. Perhaps even amusing at times. So, Neal, thank you for that (I might as well say that here, because I KNOW you're going to snoop through what I wrote the next time you get ahold of this notebook at Lanier's request. Don't pretend you DIDN'T when you talk to me later.)]

For the above reasons, if this collection of evidence does get in the wrong hands, I don't know who'll be answering to Lanier for it, but don't look at me. I did my part, and I took extra precaution on my own for my own reasons too.

Now that THAT is over, the rest of this is for whoever the hell Lanier has been referring to -for all I've seen so far, it could be one, or any other number. I guess if he sees fit to let you see with his guarded measures, I can stand to let you in on my own thoughts too, as much as I'd rather NOT.

It is indeed a wonderfully thorough collection of evidence he allowed us to look through yesterday -and invited us to add to today. All logical patterns are listed, with all the possible ways they connect. Even prior to his detailed pondering from his time in exile -with careful consideration as to which details to share and which to leave out -he has confirmed everything Neal and I discussed in our short time together with listed proof, and given a number of further considerations to build on.

This Allen Lanier fellow. He _terrifies_ me.

He has a _brilliant_ mind.

His writing is telling of that beyond our earlier encounter. I find him to be much more articulate in writing than he is in speech. 

Then, aren't we all to some point? (Not counting those who see fit to scribble whatever comes to mind with no direction or refinement, but those who seek to use the art of writing to their advantage instead.) 

Speaking isn't unlike performing. You're on the spot before the world's judgement, and you have ONE chance to get it right. Even those with the most sharp wit admittedly have times we still believe we could have articulated better (no comment on the opinion of the performance itself; that's a subjective matter). It can be surprisingly terrifying, no matter how talented whoever's doing it is.

Writing is like being in the studio. There is time to think through the most effective way of conveying the message. Those who take enough of a professional approach and have pride in what they do can edit all that is necessary, rewrite as many sections as many times as seen fit. If it seems to deserve to be dubbed 'stinko', it's not impossible to scrap and overhaul from scratch, or leave it out of any official release. Unless anyone decides to go through with it for something to laugh at, like a filler song, and later look back and tuck their tails between their legs as they ask themselves what they were thinking. Sucks for them then. Garbage in, garbage out. ("You get what you _play_ for?" Damn right, you do. That's one I can get on with. I probably will for this later.)

It's curious of Allen to mention this so-called writing tablet (one of those larger rectangular screens -the ones that some people took to staring at continuously like the brain-dead in the 'standard world' before my recent split?) The time which the documents got wiped out WAS suspiciously around the time some people here began to look as if they were trying to drive their heads though a brick wall, thick as they are tall.

If the events that take place in this so-called split world are driven by writing as suspected, what can we imply about our controller from my experience put together with Allen and Neal? How often are these events written over and over before they are complete?

I'd settle to say it's my paranoid state of mind, but it chills my spine to see it stated outside my own internal pondering that keeping much of life here consistent to standard reality is a method of maintaining power. We could say it's not paranoia at all; I'D say it sounds logical enough. And I regret to have to offer of our controller; they can't be ENTIRELY brain dead from however long they spend staring upon their screen that may be the very control panel of our lives for the accuracies they have kept. (For as much time as we spend trapped in lapse, I suppose they haven't forgotten to wake up and live their own fucking life when they're not asserting full control). Of course, they could do far better -not that anyone HERE knows whatever the hell breaks away from the events of standard life by design to define THIS world.

This begs the question as to how long such "events" are dragged out to get everything as they wish it to be -or whatever the hell it is they perceive to be 'right'... to which everyone else here should be glad I am not the one in control. The seven month wait for perfection Neal endured might just end up typical for everyone -if not longer. Or not, because I'd probably just try to get it right in the first few tries. Either that, or find someone else who COULD get it right soon enough without a problem if it went on past the month I spent in New York for my event.

Say, what would _you_ suppose as to whether this dragging out of events poses an advantage or complication for trying to assert some control here? Our controller is stubborn and aware enough that they'll fight and take as much time to see the event to their definition of perfection. I have no doubts. But I suppose it also gives us more time to _attempt_ fighting, for whatever the hell it's worth. Maybe with enough time and strength, we can give our controller a taste of his or her own medicine -control the thoughts behind these events, and convince them that what we want to have happen will better perfect the timeline of whatever happens. Force them to form the take that we wish to see.

And about that _timeline_ , to speak of the subject...

It's 2019. Lanier should not be here, and neither should Walt, yet it's like 1984 all over again, and they _both_ should be here. However, if it is 1984, Walt cannot be here as long as I am here -if everything is occurring in accordance to how it did in '84. Wherever state Walt _would_ be in at that time. 

Unless he's living some different time period. Because in this split, he might not be in the same time. I'm in 1984. Don Dokken and his group are in '99. Lanier said he's in '74, if he still is where he was the last entry he mentioned it. And if Kip Winger is supposedly having an experience in '89 with whoever this 'Jon Bon Jovi' is (I hear the name a lot back in New Jersey; sue me if you think it's a crime I haven't seen fit to look into it) while Reb Beach has made it hard to not know that a decade later, Kip was in the shadows after facing multiple tragedies, then Lanier is _right._ For all of us to be in different times, Walter could be detoxing in Hawaii right now, but he might NOT be either.

(Are you looking for the satisfaction of hearing me say 'I don't know?' I'll highly recommend myself as an opponent to that game, for the satisfaction of seeing you make a bigger fool of _yourself_.)

It isn't a possibility I haven't feared, but denial and hope are powerful forces, aren't they? They perhaps have more control over anyone in this world they choose to latch onto than any mastermind could, and they were there before any split ever happened. (If you think they weren't, you should think of however the hell YOU are going to fight the former. Good luck, because it's harder than I'd like to say it is, and you're not getting any help from me on that when I have my own fight to take.)

But forget that for now. This is an alternate reality. It shouldn't _have_ to follow life as everyone knows it. While it often does, clear enough to even the newest of 'greenhorns' here, sometimes it does not. As of now, without further consultation with others, it appears to me that it is anyone's guess as to what will and won't end up the same. 

I suspect there's a catch to trying to fight for control, and a strategy that isn't exactly consistent to push for whatever control we can get. We can fight to change the course of the event we see, but if it takes thought from our controller, it would be _too fucking easy_ to not take as much strategy from all involved each to counter their influence on us.

From a later conversation with Lanier, without much forward strategizing to make the single chance count, it appears to me that the majority of experiences follow life as we know it, as long as we don't realize the similarity, or have a plan to perfect it. Once we have a solid plan to perfect things in hindsight, and we try to implement it, it no longer follows life as we know it, and becomes life as we DON'T know it. Thus, we no longer know what is to come, and have just as little control over what lies ahead as before.

_"That's some catch, that Catch-22."_

 

...Oh, perhaps you think THAT'S funny, do you?

_You worthless idiot._

It only goes to show your lack of capacity to understand the contradictory, twisted logic that comes with such a thing. Not that you've necessarily experienced it as such, or thought through a strategy that has the slightest chance of jumping through all the interlocking hoops that are worth trying for -because whatever Don Dokken meant, he IS right, and I have no disclaimer to offer to that. You're all set to run forward as if none of them are there, only to get caught up immediately.

And yet, I stay here just the same, locked in the Catch-22 of my existence in whatever the hell kind of world I've been welcomed to.

_(To be continued)_


	9. It Makes Me Feel Better; I'm Not the Only One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Log Entry Author -NEAL DOUGHTY: ...And if that document had been wiped out too, I could still be in the snow, and Regis could still be here and stuck in lapse. Could be worse, right? I'd think it could probably be a heck of a lot better if we know how to make it work out..._

_4/24/19_

_Log Entry Author -NEAL DOUGHTY_

 

Well, I'd say Allen's writings so far gave me a lot of mixed feelings.

I can definitely relate to a lot of his confusion and suspicion in his earliest writings.

Some of the things he said confused me more at first -I guess that's a veteran-sophomore difference thing. Thankfully, his more recent explanations were very clear, and answered most of my questions -I guess he answered them as he found the answers out for himself. Had he been any more detailed, it would have been like one of Kevin's rambles, minus the showboating. Which, what can I say -we still love him, even if we do have to rein him in at times. Or, try in vain to rein him in. Sometimes we can, and we've gotten pretty good at it -twice now. But sometimes we just can't, and maybe our controller is the same way. I guess that's part of what we're trying to find out... And there's no need for me to repeat whatever I think that's already been said.

Some of Allen's experiences between lapse and events surprised me. Quite a few made me feel relieved, actually. Of the things I've seen in my two major event experiences, I feel better about some of the things that happened this last time, considering they could have been a lot worse. Though I should mention I can't say the same for the first time. None of those guys seem to have had to deal with the heavy emotional stuff yet -for which they should be glad.

Really sucks for you if you arrive in one of your lowest points. Not that I'm alone in that either just because Allen didn't. 

[You're welcome, Donald -and thank you for giving me a laugh. It's not every day I'm the one on the receiving end of 'tough noogs', nor is it that I have someone stubborn enough to give me a challenge. Nice change of pace. (Well, I could make a case for Kevin, but he's a different breed of stubborn that gets upset too quick for it to be any fun when he really digs his heels in.)]

Since the disclaimer trend has been set, if anyone's wondering, I chose to go back and write my thoughts just after midnight (not entirely by choice, but it's not my fault that Bruce isn't here, and that with Gary sick and Kevin seeming to be headed that way, Alan (Gratzer) needs some _help_. He could also use a reminder that he's a drummer, not nurse Florence _Nightengalan_ on a twelve-hour shift.) That said, Donald is making his rounds in town right now, so he is not guarding the door. However, Allen is here, and I asked if he would, so I have someone on the lookout for me for added caution too. And YES, I clearly looked through, and I don't deny it at all.

All things considered, actually (surprise, surprise), _I'm feeling good_ right about now, and I'm not looking for that to change any sooner than it inevitably will, so the few things I have to say of note from my first experience are going to have to wait for another time. As hard as it as it might be to believe after seven months and being pretty sick of it, I guess I'd rather talk about this last experience. And from it, I can say I (sadly) know a subdued form of the wild bandmate problem Allen has experienced. More or less. 

Strangely enough, I was _hoping_ the way my bandmates tended to my hypothermia between their excessive fawning over me and childlike joking around could just be never mentioned again and left alone to be forgotten. Maybe the rest of the night and living out the writing process of 'Ridin the Storm Out' could overpower it. But, I guess if what Allen said about screwing with the tablet was true, there's probably a document out there somewhere in cyberspace for the whole world to find. Which I suspect tells everything as it happened when I was in Colorado for seven months -including the details after I was rescued from the snowbank which I'd rather not remember.

That's just a _little bit_ embarrassing. _Just_ a little.

Oh well. I guess they cared enough to not just throw me under a lukewarm shower unconscious and leave me there. Nice to know. And if that document had been wiped out too, I could still be in the snow, and Regis could still be here and stuck in lapse. Could be worse, right?

I'd think it could probably be a heck of a lot _better_ if we know how to make it work out.

That's alright though, their induced insanity wasn't much worse than their typical knuckle-headed moments from back in the day (again, sadly -but nobody poured gravel in a suitcase or had a fight throwing wet, dirty clothes around. Eric has my sympathy, though it makes me feel better. I'm not the only one -all the more reason why we should all be in this together.)

I'm not going to object or try to stop them from having their own share of embarrassment if it comes their way. Of course, if I don't object to it and full control requires cooperation from everyone involved, then ultimately, none of us can really take true control of the event and have it happen as we would choose to. I'd have to let myself be subjected to whatever might come in those cases to let them experience it, regardless of whether or not I'm spared from the insanity, which...

...hmm. Looks like I have my own little Catch-22 too. All or nothing, and it's pretty hard to get both to work out at once.

Not that I actually want to rig the system against my bandmates -contrary to the jerk I sometimes come across as, I'm not that evil -but if it applies there, who says it doesn't apply to anything -and everything -else?

Guess I ought to think that one through before going on about it. For now, we'll keep on rolling with this operation. We'll see what Mike and Don have to say -with whoever else Allen recommends seeing. And while I have a couple I suspect he'll chase after, something else tells me he'll have some surprises for us too.

_(To be continued)_


	10. In Search of the Path Lost Within the Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _...Maybe, you'll learn to take what we found in our journey and apply it to lapse, and you won't _ever_ be stuck in one place again..._ Life in the lapsing split world continues following the return of Blue Oyster Cult. With further encouragement from Allen Lanier, and most of his bandmates distracted with sickness, Neal seizes an opportunity by pure chance to escape the madness of the building and talk to Mike Pinder. Chaos continues to rule in lapse, and it might not be long before Neal finds reasons to put Mike's suggestions of further escape to use! (Some chaos presented as crackfic; you've been warned!)

_4/25/19_

A week had since passed from the dreadful day that had been April 18th, 2019.

Things were far from perfect. Illness was still making the rounds, all still remained stuck in lapse, and full order had yet to be restored.

However, things were looking to be on the right path with Blue Oyster Cult being back and slowly beginning to fall back into their places. Buck, Eric, and Allen had gotten some good rest while Ray stayed up having fun with the Bouchard brothers the previous night, and waking up refreshed, they were making strides in getting settled up on the seventh floor.

And while his bandmates were now suffering the plague of the past week, seeing that he felt normal himself, rather than wracked with inexplicable panic, Neal Doughty was determined to make the most of it when he saw the chance.

He found it in the last place he would have expected.

While Ray caught up on sleep, Mike Pinder had accompanied John Lodge for the morning and through the early afternoon. They'd found themselves assisting Gary Richrath in tending to a dangerously feverish Kevin Cronin.

Having finally succumbed to sickness a week after Reb and Jeff, and three days after Gary, Kevin was aching and delirious. Dousing him under a cold shower hadn't done much to make him feel better after lowering his temperature. In the changing area outside the showers, he had to sit for awhile with ice bags tucked underneath his thin clothing before returning to bed to keep from rapidly spiking his fever back up and throwing him into shock. Staying within the reaches of the warm steam from the showers was all Gary and Alan had come up with to keep the holdover from being pure torture, but Kevin had become so frantic at the start of the process that Mike and John had stayed to help comfort him until his fever came down enough that he was semi-aware.

His thick, untamable hair had formed a frizzy, dark mass of loose, irregular curls from drying in the humidity, that seemed to swallow him whole from behind. Barely an inch of his face was visible while he now leaned into Gary, who was monitoring his fever through the wait. John spoke softly to him to maintain the sense of calm they'd managed to achieve.

"Usually, I do worse than he does, but he definitely went down harder this time." Gary looked at the thermometer and frowned. "All this to get him down to 101, and I've barely broken that, if I even have at my worst." He sniffled against the congestion that remained after the sensation of having cotton stuffed in his head dropped down to his chest.

"He got it like I did." Jeff Pilson emerged from the shower, having dried off and gotten dressed before leaving the stalls. His towel hung over his shoulders to protect his t-shirt from his wet hair. "That's pretty much as low as you'll be able to get it, as much as it sucks."

"I guess we were as doomed to get sick as Neal was, because we went out after him. KC tried to run out in the storm without a coat and shoes at first too, but I'm not gonna jump to say that's why he's feeling so much worse when we don't know that."

Gary looked a bit sheepish with the latter part of the statement, knowing full well that he'd had a fight with Kevin over that, and had gone as far to make a remark on not wanting him to ever do something stupid that could very well get him killed again.

It had only been for emphasis. He hadn't wanted to _suggest_ Kevin would get so terribly sick, and hindsight made him feel like it looked otherwise.

"Yeah, yeah." Jeff nodded eagerly. "That could have done it, but being in Southern California when I got it -you can definitely get it without being in the cold."

"Well, lucky for him, he's only a little less hyper than you are, Jeff. He's got enough energy to bounce back quick, since he's sure not going through what you're toughing out." Gary offered an understanding nod.

Visibly dropping guard, Jeff sank down on the bench between Gary and John.

"Well, this part of it, I went through before; I'll survive it again, as much as I'd rather not go through it. It's not like when George attacked me, with that being such a shock."

"Still, 's-hard," Kevin strained, before dissolving into a coughing fit that jerked his shoulders back. He managed to stop it just before reaching gag-inducing strength.

"Aw, man. That stuff's the worst." Jeff frowned.

"Like I said, he'll survive it and bounce back quick. Just doesn't like to stop talking, so he's probably gonna take longer to get past the sore throat. But that's okay." Gary hugged Kevin to his chest and rubbed his back soothingly as another bout of shivering overtook him.

"In the 80s, they used to like to have photo shoots in multiple-occupancy bathrooms like these, silly as it was," said Jeff, getting a look at Kevin's fluffy curls, blushed cheeks, and the spaced-out look in his watery eyes that well-mimicked the effect of any combination of drugs commonly used in the time -some of which they'd both been familiar with at one time. He was _trying_ to find something more positive to say than how sick he really looked, and if he hadn't been shivering and miserable, dressed up, he could have blended in on any night in their past.

"Sorry you're not feeling well, Kevin. You look ready for the camera otherwise."

Kevin whimpered something unintelligible through his scratchy vocal cords before dissolving into another fit of wheezy coughs -and this time _was_ strong enough to get him gagging in between, just as the others had the week before. His face twisted in agony as he leaned away from Gary just in case, and John reached past Jeff to pat his shoulder.

"Don't strain when it hurts, mate," John soothed. "There, there. Just relax. You don't need to tell us what's happening when we've seen it. We'll make sure you've got what you need."

"He's right," added Mike. "There will be plenty of time for you to say whatever else is on your mind when you are well, and with greater ease. And think of what Jeff said. Imagine in your mind what could be here -let your delirium carry you away rather than further into what is, and maybe you'll find yourself in a more enjoyable place."

"Just imagine it," said John, looking to Mike and shaking his head sternly -almost as if scolding gently. "You don't have to be a mystic as Mike is to achieve escape."

"Management used to make it a misery sometimes." Gary looked up to Jeff and smiled sadly. "It's a shame. We could have gotten up to a lot of fun in here during those photo shoots. Get some water pistols and the hose from the handicap shower and have a water fight; use the different stalls as hideouts to run in and out of. Of course, we'd probably overwhelm the floor drain and create a lake too."

"That _would_ be fun," agreed Jeff, lighting up with his enthusiastic grin that had been almost nonexistent over the last few months. "Now I really wish we had been able to do that -if it wouldn't have possibly turned into a real fight between a couple of my guys. But it'd ruin the hair volume we were expected to have in the day in that scene. That's why they'd never let us do that."

"Yeah, I was lucky with that." Gary chuckled bashfully. He had a mass of golden curls that naturally fluffed out on their own, and it had saved him a lot of trouble.

"Why don't you just keep talking about that big-to-do you had to put up with? All of you are making me half-grateful to have missed most of the 80s."

That was Donald Fagen from around the corner, still in the shower, not having expected a camp to settle outside the showers when he went in earlier.

"To be fair, a lot of our videos _were_ first class crap," offered Jeff. "I'll admit, they probably wouldn't have happened if we'd all been entirely sober. At least they were so bad they're funny to look back at. And you _can_ come on out here and hang with us even if you weren't a part of that."

"I think I'll opt to hang with you from where I am when that's the only choice I have, until I have a clear path out -when all of you leave," Donald dug. He decided not to clarify what his real problem with all of them being there was, partially for the fun of possibly getting a rise out of someone.

It was almost as if paranoia and boredom had caused the majority of his two-month sickness. He still had an occasional dry cough on first lying down at night, but the rest of his illness had gone away between Neal and Allen's reappearances. And with the paranoia fading, some of the others were more tolerable than he'd felt just a week before. Jeff, for example, was actually quite likable in being reasonable and able to take a joke. His nature was just slightly too innocent to fully get on with his own. 

As Jeff had, Donald had placed his belongings in reach. He was dressed and able to leave if he wanted to. Walking past everyone itself wasn't so daunting as it had been just the week before. Under normal circumstances, he might have felt able to. 

However, a certain amount of paranoia remained, and he'd decided that he'd rather _not_ see Kevin staggering about with a fever, or hanging limp and deadweight on Gary's shoulder, should it trigger imagined pictures of worse things resulting from drugs.

So he remained trapped in the shower stall, waiting for Alan Gratzer to return from taking his and his bandmates' shower kits back to their room, so that he could help Gary take Kevin back too without having to juggle items.

A moment later, Neal walked in toward the bench, albeit fully dressed, and with no bag or kit suggesting he was coming in for a shower.

Gary met eyes with him. "Anything going on, Trout?"

"No, nothing much, aside from checking to see that the two of you didn't fall through the shower drain. I had to wonder, since you guys came down here nearly an _hour_ ago, but I guess _you_ didn't."

Gary, John, and Jeff all cracked up, provoking a whine from Kevin, who was feeling very sensitive to noise. The echo off the tile of not one, but three laughs -with Gary's giving way to gruff coughing -quickly became too much for him.

_"Oops,_ guys," warned Jeff, widening his eyes and putting his finger to his lips. "Shhhhh!"

Mike shushed them too with a much gentler force of the sound.

"I'm not so sure about Kevin though," said Neal, casting a weary look at his _very_ sick bandmate. "So I figure I'd better ask if you need _help_ now that I'm here."

"No, I think we got it. We're probably good to put Kevin in his bunk here in a second. I'm just waiting for Alan to come back from putting everything away so we have free hands -John and Mike said they'd help if the two of us couldn't take him." Gary grinned regretfully. "I doubt that'll be a problem though when he's nothing but skin and bones."

_"I'd_ appreciate it if you gave them help," Donald suggested from around the corner. "And I'd beg to differ about falling through the drain. I think they did fall though, and somehow climbed back up before you got here."

Gary cracked up again, this time biting his lip to keep his volume controlled.

"We'd let Neal help instead of Alan, honestly," he chuckled. "Since we'd be out of here and wouldn't feel guilty about how long it's held John and Mike up here. The problem is how stubborn Alan is about that."

"Yeah, you try to get him to take a break in his _own HOUSE_ when we'd all go there to work on songs in the early days, and you get the 'it's my house and you all are my guests' talk," Neal explained.

"Well, that confirms'th a lot I suspected of him. I'll wait then and hope he doesn't get distracted by too many others who might need him... if he hasn't already."

"I can help them out, Mike," offered Jeff. "I'm a little weak, but I'm probably not gonna get sick when he got the same thing I had. I'm more likely to get sick again from being stuck while I'm sick in an event."

"Are you sure?"

Jeff nodded eagerly, before pausing to cough down the inside of his shirt. "I needed some rest, but I'm charged up and ready to go for now."

"Alright then. I suppose I ought to go outside while it's nice then, since it seems Ray stayed up later than he ought to have last night, and we're up for another rainy weekend." Mike rose from the bench. "Anyone who's feeling well enough is welcome to join me if they might. John, are you coming or good to stay?"

"I'll stay until they get here. It shouldn't be much longer, so you don't need to worry about me. Jeff and I can find something nice to talk about."

Neal perked up. _I guess this is as good a chance as any._

"You know, I was hardly here for a month before 'you know what' happened. And I've been sick, or it's been throwing down so hard you practically need a boat since I got here, so I haven't really gotten a good look around the place."

Mike beamed.

"Come along with me then, Neal. Of course I'd be happy to show you around."

"I have one question before I do -is everyone here gonna survive, or is there gonna be trouble as soon as I leave, as usual?" Neal shoot Gary a look, prompting the guitarist to crack up.

"Trout, we survived a few months, so I sure hope so. We'll try our best, and hope that you try your best not to get stuck somewhere we'll have to come get you from _again."_

"He'll have help," assured John. "Mike can attest we've developed quite a bit of skill in navigation."

"We've gotten ourselves through an interesting predicament before, but I'll make sure he stays safe, wherever we go." At Mike's word, Neal readily followed him out, and down the hall toward the stairwell and exit, wondering just what predicament Mike was referring to.

"I imagine you've got stories to tell for as long as you were gone," Mike suggested.

"Not as many as you'd think, but if you twisted my arm just a little harder than normal, you might get something out of me." Neal shoved open the door to the outside, immediately getting hit in the face with a gust of humid wind, signaling another storm would roll in soon to challenge the one they'd seen the previous weekend.

"Not that I'd appreciate it. It might be uncomfortable playing piano if you did."

Mike waited until they'd ascended the hill from the exterior door up to the walkway. They were well past the tennis courts that Neal had chased Donald past the week before, and close to passing the rest of the sports complexes before he spoke again.

"Well, if it's not to do with your time of absence, what _is_ on your mind, mate?"

"A lot," Neal deadpanned.

"You don't know where to start?" Mike raised his eyebrows, but spoke with an inflection more like a statement than a question.

"I think it'd be easier if I asked _you_ to start on a particular example. At least that way I might not sit here all day trying to explain it all."

"So I'll probably know by the time I've answered you, I suppose." Mike nodded. "Right on, then, mate. What have you got for me?"

"How many events have you encountered here, after you got the split? Times when you weren't here with everyone else."

"Since we've arrived in the Spring of 2017, you mean?"

"If that's when you got here, yes. Whenever you aren't hanging out with everyone here -how many different things have you seen happen?"

"The difference between number of 'events', as we seem to call them, and times I've been between them and here is quite different. I suppose you might imagine this from what your bandmates have told you, though it seems you did not experience it yourself this last time."

"Maybe I'll wish I had," Neal mused. He followed Mike through a gap in traffic at a crossing through a traffic circle. The main street which they'd come down seemed to narrow as they came upon a quieter section of land. A greenhouse stood on the edge of the road, and beside it, a well landscaped garden that seemed to go quite a ways back.

Mike turned to see that Neal had made it across the street behind him. "I suppose that's something you're looking to get a sense for by my experiences?"

"That, and just to know the nature of what you've experienced. How much of it was something new to you, and how much of it seemed like a repeat of something from the past?"

"Ahhh." A knowing grin spread across Mike's features. "I believe I am finding the path lost within you." He motioned to the footpath leading into the garden. "Let's take this path for ourselves while I see about guiding you toward the answer at the end of your own."

_Sounds like a lyric from one of their songs, or an adaptation of one. Wish I could remember the title -something to do with 'four doors'? I guess I'll find out -hopefully._

Neal snapped out of his thoughts -and flinched his gaze back down from the strings of glowing lights hung in the trees forming a canopy over the foot path back -when Mike began his storytelling. 

"The first thing I experienced -and relived, with all five of us together -was using a coat hanger to frantically put the tapes back in my mellotron at the Fillmore. Not a fun night for me, and a rather great disappointment for us to have our first widely recognized performance in America get upstaged by clips of Bugs Bunny."

"Which was exactly how it happened the first time too," conjectured Neal.

_"Exactly_ how it happened the first time."

"How did the others take it?"

Mike stopped on the path and fingered a low-hanging branch on a vibrant Eastern Redbud tree in thought. The tree was now beginning to put out the characteristic, heart-shaped green leaves in between the fuchsia blooms.

"I can only speak for what I've been told, as our roadies encouraged everyone aside from those of us working to make the repair to go backstage and keep calm. I did not witness their responses while repairing the mellotron. Now, that's not to say that was a bad thing either. Just because I know how to make the repair does not mean it is simple, and I'm sure if they were not to obey the command to go backstage, seeing me attempt the process might have made them more anxious. It certainly wouldn't have done much for my focus on the task either. But as you might imagine, the latter of those commands still only came to a certain point."

"Not hard to guess a critical malfunction would," agreed Neal. "You'd rather have it happen before going onstage -it's pretty hard to cancel once you're already there and trying to perform."

"We weren't particularly fond of the idea of calling it quits either -considering what everyone might have thought if we did. Our initial public perception wasn't the best, even though we were successful. Justin was especially riled up, just as he was the first time. I suppose it didn't make any difference to him that we'd managed to bounce back before and very well could again. Having known him, and seeing him here again from time to time, I do think he'd react the same even _if_ he _was_ aware."

"Or there was a chance he hadn't realized yet, with it happening so soon into the split," Neal added.

"Or he hadn't realized yet," Mike ceded, "as why I said if he was aware. Even I must admit, it took me a minute into the night to come to my senses, as I was quite focused on resolving the problem at hand.

"In fact, from what I've been told, I believe it was Graeme who first recognized that we were reliving something we'd seen before. It seemed to him that if I could do what I'd done once before, we would come out of it with the chance to play a few songs and a good performance otherwise."

Neal looked up toward Mike with interest.

"Did Graeme mention it to them when he realized?"

"That he saw it as something from the past?" 

"Or something to that effect."

"Not at all, actually," said Mike. "We've had a tendency to tease him for being the ridiculous one of us -and unfortunately, I once took that too far in anger, twice now -and I suppose in that moment, he preferred to use his silliness to diffuse the situation backstage, rather than set himself up if his hunch was wrong."

"Would Justin have panicked more if he'd been told then?" asked Neal. "He sounds like the high strung one from what you're saying."

"He truly is." Mike nodded with a regretful smile and a chuckle in his voice. "Ah, Jus. There's a reason you don't find him sitting comfortably and content with us most of the time. It took him the longest amount of time to accept being here, and Graeme sticks with him all the time, attempting to see him lighten up a bit, wherever it is he's exploring."

"I bet you're gonna tell me he tried to do the same thing with him while you were fixing the mellotron." 

"For not having spent much time with us, as you often point out, you've got us figured out quite well, mate." 

Mike suddenly pointed to the left of their path, and Neal smirked as they saw a skittering chipmunk startle a frog in the small pond tucked between the mulch beds of emerging spring plants.

"You could catch me by surprise too," Mike mused as they continued on to a clearing, heading toward a bridge over a much larger pond. "Perhaps you shouldn't doubt yourself so."

Neal snickered to himself as they went over the bridge, thinking of several jokes with unusual connections to his own self-doubt and an album title as several koi fish rushed over to the bank of the pond. It left him with no doubt -at least that the signs telling visitors not to feed the fish had been ignored plenty.

"Just ask Bruce about the jokes they've made about that, and about a few other things too. Whenever he gets here."

"Well, to get back on the track of our own joker, most of how Graeme set off the situation was geared toward distracting Justin. He told some jokes as to what the tapes coming from my mellotron looked like. I won't tell the specifics of Graeme's analogy. It also succeeded in planting a gross image for some of us. I'll have to admit though, it did indeed look like 'spaghetti junction'."

"Considering the sense of humor that sometimes comes up in my band, I think I know where he went with that," Neal admitted, with the faintest look of regret in his eyes offsetting his deadpan voice. "Have there been other instances of Graeme tending to Justin in events?"

"One quite significant that was just between the two of them," Mike noted as he led Neal down a set of steps to a path lined with taller, less-landscaped wildflowers that would soon be swarming with pollinators. "Walk along with me to the next bend, Neal, and I'll tell you about that and quite more."

As they descended the steps, the fantasy, dream-like atmosphere began to fade, and Neal sensed a similar switch coming in the atmosphere of Mike's story-telling. He didn't seem quite as amused by whatever he was recalling inside.

"You said something happened between you and Graeme twice?" Neal prompted, wondering if that was the unpleasant thought.

Once again, Mike seemed to know what Neal had caught onto. "That _is_ actually what I am about to explain."

"It was a stupid fight," he finally began. The downcast tone creeping into his voice seemed to reflect the spring-bulb wildflowers around them -jonquils and tulips -already beginning to fade and shrivel on the edges, and leaning over tiredly on their stalks.

"During the _Octave_ sessions, once we'd come back together at the end of our break through most of the 70s. As you can imagine -perhaps from your own experience with leaving and returning mates -we weren't all the same as we'd been before. I had a family -a stable one -and I wanted that to last. Mass touring wasn't what I wanted anymore, though it was for the others, and at first we decided I'd help write the album. Perhaps they'd get a touring member and keep me for the studio, but it was already questionable if that would last as they got to know whoever they got better."

"That's almost how it was with Alan. Except I think he'd thought it over well enough to know he'd stay torn between the road and home unless he left us altogether, and that's what he'd already decided from the moment he brought it up." Neal shrugged. "It was hard for him, but I'm glad that once he was out, he was at peace with his decision."

"I was at peace with mine too, and I certainly wouldn't choose to stay if I had that part of it to do again -and there is a chance I might." Mike closed his eyes resolutely while they stood in an open section of the field at the end of the path, meeting the roadway to leave the garden. "It was what happened before it that carried with us -and maybe I ought to have left rather than contributing to that one, if it weren't for the album deadline.

"It was tense -they were already searching for a new keyboard player for the tour while we wrote the album. And I was working an idea out with Justin one day -we were very strong together with exchanging ideas when they clicked together -and Graeme kept trying to nudge in with a separate idea of his own when we were focused."

"And you lost your patience with him," guessed Neal, figuring he already knew plenty well from his own experience.

"Exactly, and in this instance, it really was more the way that I said it than how I really meant it that did the damage. Graeme truly is more than _'just a drummer'_ , despite what I might have said in frustration. What would we be without his poetry, after all -I couldn't tell you. And even if he was just a drummer, he'd still deserve a say, even if it was preferred while not interrupting something else."

"They can be more without contributing to the music too," Neal added. "Graeme's good at keeping morale up, like you said with the mellotron breaking down. Alan didn't write any songs, but he did a lot of the responsible stuff nobody else wanted to do while he was with us. We still gave him a hard time though."

"I've already seen," Mike mused. "And it's not that Graeme isn't used to us teasing him, but that was different, and I did hurt his feelings. With me already on my way out, I suppose it just sped up the process of us drifting apart. He's usually forgiving, but I don't know how much he trusted that it wasn't my intention to come off that way when I had plans to leave, and one might say there wasn't much point in him forgiving quickly when I would be gone soon enough."

He quickened his pace as they moved onto the sidewalk going down a street that wound around the back of the sports complex they'd passed the front of earlier.

"There's not much to see here, Neal, but when we get to the woodland behind the stadium, we'll have a nice hiking path to follow. Are you still up to hearing more and continuing?"

"I'll follow you wherever. It's hearing anything else you have that I'm interested most in."

_Albeit, that woodland..._ Neal suspected it was the same woodland he'd hoped not to have to chase Donald into when they'd run out in the rainstorm. Now that there was daylight and clear weather, exploring what was back there was more appealing.

"I've got a story that would be nice to tell when we get there. In the meantime, we'll go to a more lighthearted instance with Graeme."

"Is that the time with Justin?"

"You're quite good and getting better," Mike said, almost teasingly. "By the time I get to the last story, you might just be able to predict everything I clue towards, before I say it."

"Well, how about I try it out, just for kicks?" quipped Neal, feeling some of the walls breaking down. "Justin was concerned about something -maybe a little more than anyone else would have been, which is fine, by the way -and Graeme was trying to get him to lighten up?"

"Well, what else could it be?" Mike chuckled. "Every band has at least one who is less relaxed, and it's all relative. I only know what Graeme told me of, as nobody else was there."

"Well, that's the boring part. What are the 'interesting details'? I guess that's what you'd call them."

"Jus was simply concerned with moving on to a new recording after _Days of Future Passed_." Though suggesting the concern was small, Mike held a smile in his voice of understanding. "That album was a complete change of style for us after wide lack of success, and what came before it was something he found quite emotionally distressing. To have immediate success in his own track was very relieving at first, but it left the concern as to whether he'd ever be able to top "Nights in White Satin". I suppose for him to revisit that time, even if just for a couple of hours -and from lapse, I saw with Ray that's all it was -brought back a bit of pressure and concerns from that time. Of course, we did fine and how successful our future efforts were is up to the opinion of the fans, really. I would also think he had some fear that the success would be forgotten -for reasons good or bad -and that's all understandable, but as Graeme suggested to him in some way or another, does good music ever _really_ die?"

"Well, depends on how you look at it. The fact a good number are still played on the radio today says a thing or two, as well as seeing young fans at concert audiences. I guess that's subjective to each band too, but..."

"Indeed, most cases to some extent continue to go on, even after those who wrote it are long gone. And, as it turns out..."

"...some of us are still here," Neal finished.

"Passed on from the standard world, but still alive here. Perhaps extending our own legends of life to last even longer." Mike held up a finger and emphatically gestured with it. _"Strangely enough_ , Graeme brought up feeling the sensation of the exact opposite beneath his discussion with Justin."

Neal frowned. "Death and loss? Over _Days of Future Passed,_ or something else going on then most people wouldn't know about?"

"Ah, not necessarily death, though I would it very well could have been the cause of the feeling. I wouldn't know what it was that he actually felt, but as Graeme so mentioned there was the feeling of grieving through it. He almost felt as if he was attempting to console Justin for a loss." 

Mike set his hand pensively on Neal's shoulder, bringing the smaller keyboardist to look up as they moved forward. 

"It _is_ quite an interesting thought you bring up though, mate, as I had simply thought of Justin mourning the end of the album era, which has always seemed strange. While Justin was plenty fearful the first time around, and I'm sure he didn't enjoy leaving behind the certainty, he was never distraught about moving on once we got into recording _In Search of the Lost Chord_ the first time, and the second time, Graeme said Justin wasn't as upset as he couldn't help but feel he was. And sometimes, it seems there are feelings here that come from somewhere beyond us all."

_THAT'S it!_ Neal all but jumped, seeing the exact opportunity to jump in as Mike touched on one of the exact phenomena he'd waited for. He didn't want to knock Mike over, so he managed to restrain himself long enough to move further to the side instead, where he stopped in his tracks and turned around to face him.

"That," he started, "is what I've been wondering about."

"I was wondering when I'd catch up to what you were looking for. You are right in it being difficult to describe."

"Well, you know what I'm talking about, and since I know that now, I'm not even gonna try to explain it. With that, do you ever get the strangest feeling that somebody created this split world and is controlling it? Particularly when we all have these strange feelings we can't explain -it's just coming to us passively from somewhere else?"

Mike shrugged and lifted his hands up at his sides. 

"Why not? Quite a few say the same is true for the standard world, and regardless of where one might stand in that debate, it stands to more reason with anybody here."

Neal blinked. "I didn't think of _that,_ but that is true..."

"That's not to place whoever might be behind this on a high level, but there's less evidence of a scientific connection. No rhyme or reason to when and how we arrive here first. If it was by age, you would think I'd have been here long before Jeff Pilson. Ray was still alive when he arrived here, but Allen Lanier had already passed from the standard world."

"And it seems like our ages don't go in order either while we're here, as far as I've seen," added Neal.

"Certainly not, and I've seen it myself."

"Let me ask you this, with everything else, have you ever tried to get some control over it, or managed to go against what you thought might happen?"

"I shouldn't say that it was us who thought to try it first. We weren't even attempting to control the event for the sake of opposing some other form of control. It was simply encouragement from an old friend to find the way through for ourselves. Which then leads me to what we've come to call the journey of 'the lost chords'. Ray and I remember that experience quite fondly. It wasn't like anything we'd seen before, but could have fit right in our time."

"Well, that sounds like one I want to hear about," Neal decided. "Also sounds like a breath of fresh air compared to most experiences I've seen on my own and heard of from some of the others."

"It was a once in a lifetime experience, though it is quite the long story, I should warn you. It wasn't quite over when you first joined us, and it had already been ongoing for over a year by then," explained Mike. "We had three long standing periods in lapse throughout it too, with shorter ones in between. You'll have to walk with me for quite awhile before we make it through everything worth discussing."

He pointed as they reached the back entrance to the woodland. "We might be out of these woods before I say all there is to be said, with the most concise nature possible."

"Fine by me," Neal offered with a shrug, continuing along. "We're about to be rained in for another three days, so I'd better stay out while I can, or I'm going to get sick again -with _cabin_ fever, and throwing me under a cold shower isn't going to help with that."

"Very nice," said Mike flatly and motioning Neal along to follow. "Though maybe, you'll learn to take what we found in our journey and apply it to lapse, and you won't _ever_ be stuck in one place again.

"It was a night on the bus to our final three shows around England before completing all touring efforts for _Days of Future Passed_ , and you might have noticed Ray and I are of the cosmic kind, and Graeme is a party animal amongst us. We were becoming interested in the psychedelic movement, as Ray came to hear more of Timothy Leary's teachings - _just_ as it was the first time around. And possessing some of Timothy's drug of choice, we occasionally had some nights of indulgence, and observation of the world out the bus window through a different set of colors and a different version of clarity."

"So you all took some together -I thought John refused to," Neal realized.

"In the standard world, he did. He often refuses here too. But in this world, we did have one unique experience. I suppose I'll say Graeme teased while Ray and I twisted his arms enough that he actually agreed to try a drop. If much less of a quantity than what the rest of us had, and perhaps just as well he did no more."

Try as he did to hold it back, an immature grin pulled the corners of Neal's mouth up.

"What, are you saying he's a lightweight?"

Mike grinned back in silent admittance of what he kindly refrained from saying aloud.

"That is difficult to say for sure. There still is a chance he only believed he felt the effect so strongly, because the negative symptoms hit him far more than the rest of us. He was quite ill throughout the rest of the event, and was off to his bunk before most of us. Except Justin -he liked to stare at the ceiling a lot and make pictures entirely of his mind.

"We woke up early the next morning to a bus crash in a misted field far off the road, and to our driver missing. And after a bit of searching for a direction, we came to the conclusion that we were lost and departing on an adventure to find our way home."

"How'd you pick a direction?"

"Our surroundings -which were enhanced far longer by the acid than we'd ever seen before -seemed to show us if we knew to look and listen. It was the sound of the wind in the distant trees, and the birds flying toward them through the mist overhead. We followed it until we were walking on a forest trail with trees overhead." Mike pointed upward. "Just like this, but an unpaved trail, and as far as your eye could see. And a river ran along the trampled path, which we decided to follow -and even ride along-"

"So you'd essentially been placed into a world analogous to your concept album," Neal realized. "I'm familiar with matching up to songs, but with an event like that."

"Exactly, mate. We were in search of the lost chord, and in search of ourselves within this still-unfamiliar world. With the timing, we had no recall within the event of the written album -I think we found our places here by the end, but we must pass on what Timothy's word, as we're not the only ones who will need his advice."

"I guess there must have been a historical recall prior to that then."

"What? _'Dr. Livingstone, I presume, stepping out of the jungle gloom'..."_ Mike sang a full step lower than Ray, lending a less cheerful sound than the C Major tune did. It sounded more mature and pondering, rather than what on the album could have been singing to a child.

"We're all looking for someone," Neal mused. "And I've seen quite a bit now, and heard quite a few things already -I still don't think I've found all I'm looking for."

"None of us have. We've all got more to find out here at our proper times. But, as Timothy also reminded us, it pays to slow down and enjoy it, to not miss out on the better parts of a difficult journey. It doesn't have to be entirely bad -you can't tell me there wasn't anything good that came out of your blizzard in Colorado."

"Yeah, we eventually got the upper hand of that one. Oh, look. 'Visions of Paradise'," Neal quipped as they came out of the forest trail into a less-landscaped garden, marked with signage denoting it as an International Peace Garden, where for each country involved in a past war, there was a native plant species.

"Pity Ray was up too late having fun with the Bouchard brothers; he'd have brought his flute along."

"I bet Eric and Allen were glad to sleep in peace for once without those two running wild." Neal emitted a small chuckle.

"Oh, that's part of why he did, aside from none of us being quite as wild as him -it's actually quite nice here that he gets a separate outlet for that side of himself," Mike mused as they wove around the gravel paths. "Eric and Allen seemed a bit tired last night."

"So Ray took on being tired afterward." Neal decided not to mention that out of sheer boredom and madness, Allen had not slept but one night in the five days following his release from exile, to the point at which his own form of paranoia made a visible appearance.

"For the fun of it. He had all night, and as Timothy would have wished, he made the most of it all."

"How long would you say it felt like from within, not counting the true time in lapse?"

"Not much past three days on the move, but there was a fourth day we made no progress on foot, but plenty of progress in our minds."

"With Timothy," stated Neal, figuring that much. "I know you guys couldn't have possibly walked nonstop for those days on end though."

Mike broke out into pained chuckles as he motioned Neal down the hill into the very field past the complex he'd run through on his first night back.

"Mate, I had a forty pound mellotron on my back. With the state I was in by the end of the second to last day, I wouldn't like to think of where I'd be had we not had the sense to give ourselves a rest -and we certainly did not need Timothy to tell us anything to be sure of that!"

"What was it like? Did you have to camp out, or was there a place-"

"The first night, there was, as was the second night. We came upon a house in the woods at the fall of dark -the very one which Timothy found us in on the second day -and how many doors would you guess were inside?"

"It was a house of _four doors_ ," Neal realized, lighting up.

"And the line of our reprise was spoken to us on the second night when we returned to the house after a break to go on another excursion with Timothy, which might be best explained another time. We were so well rested with his advice and in good spirits that we continued on through most of the third day and night, with only a small stop in a field for a nap, taking turns for one of us to keep watch, and in our night outside, whoever might have placed us into that event was kind to not ever leave us in foul weather without shelter."

"Was continuing on a matter of trying to catch up, or just what you felt like?"

"It felt timeless. We could have stopped sooner, but we found that Timothy was right in thinking _is_ the best way to travel. What could have been a monotonous walk, through mostly plains and grasslands -imagine this field stretching as far as you can see -it was surprisingly enjoyable. We just had to make the most of it with our imagination," Mike concluded. "And the same has held true even while sitting here in lapse."

"So how did that tie into finding your way?"

"We had heightened senses -lasting hours longer than we could have ever expected -and we had to be very in tune to the world around us to get a sense for what was to happen and how we should change the course in our favor. Only if we saw a sign that we needed to, in our case. There was no trail to follow along the ground as on the first day -we were finding our own."

"I kind of get what you're saying." Neal nodded. "Haven't seen first hand, but I've had a few gut feelings here."

As he had on the first night, running out into the storm after Donald Fagen.

"That's part of it. You must connect it to your mind." Mike tapped the side of his head.

"So what told you it was time to break the pattern and change paths again?"

Neal and Mike had returned to the street they had started on, just across from the building. Rather than continuing toward it, they turned down, walking in the opposite direction from which they had started, off to some other new place.

"For one, the mellotron was beginning to wear greatly on me when we reached the end of another forested break and came out into some garden -which looked much like the one we started our walk in, but with decor more common to English landscaping -John was beginning to feel ill again, and a storm was rolling in. There was open shelter within the garden we found -and we stayed over that night. Justin was also quite overwhelmed by that point, and it was just as well for him. When we woke up the next morning, we found our way out of the garden, and weren't far from a main road leading back to town we'd been searching for."

"And I guess the most of the journey was over by then. I got a question, going back -were there any moments telling of what might happen in the future?" 

"Oh yes. We'll return to the house of four doors and our excursion with Timothy -where I met my very replacement in his young age-"

"Patrick Moraz?" Neal smirked. "Oh, this oughta be fun..."

Nearly an hour later, he and Mike finally circled around after taking a walk through the heart of town, returning to the building from the other side, facing away from the street.

They'd walked through a grass field splitting the middle of an expanse of neo-gothic architecture buildings, walked through the arches in those buildings that channeled the wind of the changing weather patterns like a turbine tunnel, and made their way up sets of stairs carved into the faces of hillsides, even passing by the building with the overhang under which he'd taken refuge from the hail.

But as Neal went along, he attempted to follow Mike's story-telling, and could somewhat see the faraway land of 'the lost chords'. He could see the distinct changes in the surroundings as they walked along, as each room in the house of four doors had been strikingly different. Walking through the rounded, sunken grass field, he imagined staring off the railing of the boat through endless mist on the bay as Mike described.

And as they made their way back along the familiar trail to the building, he realized that the guidance Mike had to offer was coming to its end, just as Timothy's eventually had. It was up to Neal how he would use it once he returned inside.

"...It all worked out in the end, despite it," said Mike. "For we didn't miss any of the final shows of the tour as we thought we had. We'd simply dreamed the entire thing in our bunks overnight between locations, due to the effects of the LSD, and we'd had the adventure of a lifetime all within our minds. While that experience was new, the legend of it remains on our album."

"Well, it wasn't a dream, but I had a new part in the 'Ridin the Storm Out' experience this time. Wait." Neal winced as images from the fever dream he'd had just the week before came rushing back into his mind. "Then if I have a nightmare here and it _feels_ real, are you saying it could be an event without us even realizing? -OR that an event could ALL be _just_ a dream?"

"Now, now mate; don't panic. That was a dream within an event. It most certainly did happen, and it was one intended to make us think and give us an experience that would have never otherwise been possible. If we woke up from such a dream abruptly in the common room or the bedroom rather than finding ourselves walking or driving back toward wherever it is we choose to stay in between, _then_ it might not be a true event. It might be one that tried to happen and was canceled by loss of mental connection, I suppose, and then there's always the chance it is postponed and may happen later."

"So when I got back and you weren't there the other night, that was-"

"Indeed," Mike nodded. "I went for a walk and happened to take a break on a bench in the garden we passed through and nod off." 

"And Ray and John still felt it, even though they had no idea you were just asleep in the garden," said Neal. "And the nightmares while I was sick -Kevin and Gary -they didn't go through it in an actual event, but they _could_ have, because they fought while I was sleeping."

"And there still is the chance they _might_ ," added Mike. "Just as I might. Maybe it was early enough to change our path through, or perhaps not."

"So does that mean you know how to-?"

"Just _wait,_ now. It's quite like being in the calm before the storm -as one of many I realize you've ridden out -or perhaps in the _eye_ of it."

Neal couldn't help but look up sheepishly at Mike's gentle smirk. 'Ridin the Storm Out' had a distinctly similar opening riff to 'The Story in Your Eyes', except it backed down to repeat the B minor chord, rather than rising to a modal D and changing keys. To his knowledge, Gary hadn't tried for that similarity -it was just what came to him with the ominous sound of a storm building.

"You can see it playing out in your mind before your very eyes, and you hear the thunder building in the very distance, even though it's not come yet. Perhaps it'll come through eventually, or perhaps it will come nearby and pass your location -you simply hope you'll be able to stop it from arriving until you wake up to the light."

"So we _can_ at least hold off an event -whether or not we can actually find a path around it."

_'We can stop the thunder till the light...'_ The nearly forgotten tune echoed in the back of Neal's mind.

"Can you _stop_ any of them entirely?"

"I think that question is better suited for someone else amongst us who would know better about that," offered Mike. "I've not tried to outright stop one, as I like to think I can turn each one into a great adventure as we did, if I take the time to think it through as Timothy taught us. At best, I've paused to think of where I would like it to go from the starting point I see, and how I should travel through it once I am there."

Wind rustled through the trees overhead with a more ominous gust of wind, and the sunlight was entirely clouded over now.

"Perhaps we ought to get back inside now," Mike suggested. "As you've so pointed out, it is to rain once again tomorrow, and it could set in sooner."

"Knowing our luck here, it will if we stay out much longer. You did give me some interesting things to think about while we were here."

"You've got to blaze your own trail and find your own way home, to put it in your language, I suppose," suggested Mike. "Feel free to send anyone else my way, should they want to, mate."

"You know, I might just take your offer up on that," Neal quipped. Allen Lanier was going to have a field day with some of Mike's conclusions.

He spent the hike back to the building absorbing everything he'd been told.

_Like a storm... I guess if it's rolling in too quickly to get away from it, we have a chance to attempt to form a strategy to take it on if we hold it off, and if it's out far enough, tracking its path and trying to find one around it. Though, I gotta say, reacting to minor warnings so far out might make us all seem paranoid, and I don't think those of us who are paranoid have had much advantage -to my knowledge. Then, what if the storm changes paths too? These are questions for Allen..._

He didn't find Allen on his return, but he did see signs right away that something wasn't right.

"Where is everyone?" Neal puzzled as he looked about the bedroom. It was half-empty, he hadn't seen any of its ill hostages in the common area, and he highly doubted they were still in the bathroom with Kevin after two hours.

Don Dokken sighed as he watched Alan Gratzer lead Eric Bloom in with a step ladder. 

"Gary and Jeff took Kevin to the residential officers' triage clinic to get his vitals checked. They just called to say they're on their way back, so they should be here any minute."

"Well, I guess things DIDN'T improve much while I was out then. So much for hoping otherwise."

"Some of it could be drama, but he's in a significant amount of pain to be acting the way he was," Alan chimed in, "and we don't want to put him through a car ride to the hospital if he doesn't need it."

"Truth be told, I thought about taking Jeff to the hospital last week," said Don. "Reality is there's not much they can do, short of trying an antibiotic if it doesn't go away after a few days."

"What'd they take him for that he didn't have going on _already?"_ Neal demanded.

_Can't leave them alone for two hours. It's amazing they got through the demos of Hi infidelity with just the trouble they did have..._

"Well, first his fever started going back up, almost immediately after we got him back in bed," said Alan mournfully, keeping a cautious eye on Eric as he scaled the ladder beside him. "You know, he's already feeling so bad. Then he had another coughing fit and kept going until he hurled, and after that, he just started crying."

Alan paused to take a box Eric passed down from above to make space to search the cabinet.

"He was having a hard time breathing," Don added. "Which if the coughing itself wasn't enough to make that a fight, I don't know how the heck he was able to breathe at all with everything else."

"If it was anything like what I had that hell day last week, he probably _couldn't."_ Neal went over beside Alan and took a bottle of laundry detergent from Eric. "If I had to guess knowing him, he probably freaked out too and made it all worse."

"Well, that's what made Gary say 'enough'." Alan put the box down on the floor and looked up to see that Eric didn't need him to take anything else. "I'd have helped them, but they're trying not to get me sick, because I was out in the snow too, and I guess that puts me at some risk."

Commotion was audible in the hallway, of footsteps, coughing, and Jeff's concerned, soft voice bantering with Gary's raspy and sick one.

"Oh, how about that? Here they come," warned Don.

By the time Gary and Jeff got to the door with a half-unconscious Kevin, Gary was hitting his evening lockdown, where his own remaining symptoms grew stronger. He went into the characteristic, hard coughing jags everyone else had been having, and his lower eyelids were puffier than usual for him.

"Anything I can get that'll help you guys?" Alan moved to the doorway once they were in, anticipating being ordered out.

"Officers said his electrolytes are probably off because of the fever and hurling, so if you want to get some Gatorade from the convenience store, that'll be good for when he wakes up," Gary said breathlessly. "I could probably use some too. But we're ready to crash for an hour -at least."

"That walk's barely two city blocks, but with that crud, it's a long way to go," Jeff added empathetically. 

"My guys are ready to crash too, in beds that are properly made. Assuming Albert will actually sleep tonight after staying up with Ray -and let Joe sleep too. Don't worry, I'll be gone soon enough." 

Eric was still digging in the upper cabinet above the closet -for his sheets. Now that REO was back, Blue Oyster Cult had moved up to an empty bedroom on the seventh floor, but had been roughing it with their blankets and pillows alone, as making the beds up had been the least of their worries after a month and a half in exile.

He'd dug three out of five sets in plastic storage bags out from behind the belongings of those who had since taken up residence in the room, and some common supplies.

"Anything _you_ all need?" Alan pointed to Eric.

"We're still figuring that out as we're righting ourselves, but nothing to my knowledge at the moment. I've got it with most stuff, but if I run into something I still can't figure out, I'll tell you and we can both figure it out -or we'll try and end up looking stupid together."

"That actually doesn't sound bad to me, if you think it did. Okay." He turned back to Gary. "Then I'll go to the store. I'll see if there's anything else that might help you too."

"They called the Health Center and the pharmacy -thankfully those guys were kind enough to come to us instead of having us haul out that way. He's on the woozy cough suppressants with hydrocodone in it right now. That good stuff's gonna knock him out -already _does_ have him knocked out; no point in adding on. And I'm only having trouble in the evening. Once I go to bed, I'll be fine -I probably need to let myself cough this shit up awhile if it won't kill me. Now _out,_ before _you_ get sick." 

Gary hoisted Kevin up on his shoulder again while Jeff stepped away to fix up a bed.

"Where are we putting him?"

"We'll just put him in my bunk under Reb's for right now." Gary motioned with his elbow, and on cue, Jeff pulled the blankets and sheets back.

Gary had Kevin lie down. He pulled his pillow and the comforter off and piled it on the floor, and Jeff brought down Kevin's blankets and pillow from his top bunk to move to Gary's.

"I was gonna change sheets tomorrow anyway; it won't hurt me. He doesn't need to be up there while he's strung out."

"And where are you going?" asked Jeff. "I can help you disinfect his bunk if you want-"

"No, I'll be fine camping out on the floor right next to him. Besides that, if he needs me, I'm in arm's reach." Gary bent down and straightened his pile of blankets out into a makeshift bed on the floor beside Kevin.

Then he unceremoniously threw himself down on top of the pile.

"It actually feels even better than I thought it would, for not having a mattress pad," he mused, looking up to Jeff's surprised expression.

"I leave the building for two hours, and I come back to all _this,"_ Neal finally remarked, unable to resist any longer. He went over to his bunk -the one which he'd relocated to, along the hallway wall and underneath Kevin's original bunk -and sat down cautiously on the edge of the lower mattress.

"Imagine what you missed over seven months," Gary retorted, turning away to sneeze hard and block the round of coughing it brought on.

Donald looked out from underneath Neal's lower bunk and hissed so that Gary and Kevin wouldn't hear.

"You think you're seeing it now that they're back? You ought to have seen what they were like while you were out and you weren't here to deal with them when they got up in a frenzy. However, I _was_ , and you _owe_ me."

"Oh, do I? Well, that's alright. Welcome to life with my band full of accident-prone knuckleheads," Neal whispered back, whilst leaning over the edge of his bed. "Lucky for me, I got in a damn good long talk with Mike, and I've got plenty to tell you!"

"Hmmm." Donald narrowed his eyes and slid out all the way to sit up. "Well, maybe that'll suffice-"

"Oh, SHIT!"

Reb jumped down from his top bunk, missing Gary by less than two feet, and winced at the shock on his ankles of landing from five feet off the ground.

A high-pitched buzz sounded from above, and Donald flinched his gaze up to the ceiling, where a big, fat wasp flew near the window -right beside Reb's bunk.

"-Oh, _great."_

Eric looked up from where he was backing down the step ladder with his bandmates' bedding.

"You're joking, right?"

"You _wish."_

"Once a few months back with Kip in an event wasn't _enough?"_ complained Reb.

"Apparently not. Alright, lemme get a shoe..." Gary clambered up from his temporary pile of bedding on the floor.

"Uh, not if it gets on the glass -you're not using a shoe _then,"_ warned Eric.

"Gary, you have a fever. _Stay. BACK,"_ Don ordered, voice rising with emphasis. "The last thing you need right now is to get stung and have it get worse. And you too, Jeff. Even if you're running normal right now, I don't care. I've seen enough with you the past few weeks -or months, for that matter. Hell, years if we're gonna be honest."

"Then somebody make sure it doesn't go over near Kevin, because he's way worse than I am."

"I'll watch it." Armed with a hand towel, Neal crossed the room to shoo it away from a safe distance if he had to.

"It's not gonna be a problem for you if you get stung?" he checked with Don. "You were sick last week too.

"I've been stung working in the garden enough to at least know how much of a reaction I'll have, and I'm used to it." Rolling up a couple of old newspapers he pulled from the recycle bin, Don tossed one to Eric and kept the other.

"The screens are bolted onto the windows. How the hell did a wasp even-?" Eric huffed an exasperated sigh. "You know what? I don't wanna know."

"It'd be nice to know, but here, honestly -even _I've_ just about given up on that one." Don reached out behind himself and shoved toward Gary, Jeff, and Reb.

"All three of you, get out in the hall. Donald, you too. Neal, I know you're staying with Kevin, but _watch yourself."_

As Eric began running around the room after the wasp with the newspaper, very heavy-footed in his gait, Donald sprung up from the floor and followed the others to stand in the doorframe.

"The fever's the least of my worries, but I'll gladly take your advice."

The wasp began hopping along the lengthwise wall, separating the adjacent room, along the side of the lengthwise bunk that Don and Jeff were sharing.

Don grumbled something under his breath as he bent down, snatched up one of his shoes, and put a foot up on the ladder of his bunk. As soon as he did, the wasp hopped over to the window wall, landing on the wall just alongside the window, above Reb's top bunk, and Don stepped off his bunk and turned to it.

"Nngh-nngh- _nngh!"_ Eric hummed in a forceful, rising tone. All that was missing was the wagging finger, which he'd had to forgo while trying to head off the wasp.

"Not gonna use it on glass; I'm not _stupid."_

The wasp jumped down again, flying down toward the lower bunk, where Neal stunned it with the towel and sent it flying low along the ground toward the other side of the room. 

There, Eric missed a swat against the floor, sending it back toward Don's bunk and the desk beside it.

Don sighed as he maneuvered back over.

"Just die, hornet; die, hornet, die... Nothing worse than trying to get to that thing with all the furniture in here t- _got him!"_

He slammed the rolled up newspaper against the front of the set of drawers on the desk, and after pushing down hard enough with the paper to make sure it was impaired, he pulled it back and slammed the shoe into it, making for a faster killing strike than repeated ones with the paper.

The wasp fell to the floor, still buzzing, but too damaged to do anything more than that. Don struck with the shoe again, with gravity working in his favor, and Neal threw the towel over top of it.

"Alright, it _was_ a wasp." Eric picked the towel up and threw it in the laundry basket. "Now it's a _dead_ wasp."

Donald snorted as he started to retreat back into his hideout. "At least it'd better be."

"If it's not, it'll drown in the washing machine when that towel goes in." Don shook his head as he threw the newspaper away. "Won't even be the weirdest thing I've had in one of those."

"Are you guys gonna _live?"_ asked Eric impatiently.

"We'll live, but don't expect a hundred percent. I swear, I _just_ wanted to get some sleep," moaned Reb, coming back inside. "I'm wide awake now thanks to that thing."

Gary shrugged as he came back inside and walked up next to Kevin. "Good question, Eric. If Jeff, Neal, and Donald survived whatever we have, I'm hoping we will too."

"Alright, if there's no emergency, I'm outta here. You seven screaming diz-busters are on your own for right now," said Eric, gathering up an armful of plastic bags full of sheets. "I already have my own madhouse to deal with up on the seventh floor. And whatever you guys are passing around in here, we don't want it upstairs."

Gary took an exaggerated snuffle after sneezing hard down the inside of his shirt. Then he took another while tilting his head back, trying desperately to ward off the embarrassment of a visibly runny nose. 

"Yeah, you bet you don't," he rasped. "You tell Alan. And by that, I mean The Gratz, though Lanier's been hanging with us too!"

"Well I've given up on Lanier -he's crazy. Just as long as he doesn't bring it _back_ upstairs to the rest of us." Eric proceeded to haul ass as soon as he was in the hall.

Neal tossed Gary the tissue box. "Because you're about _two seconds_ away from leaving a trail, and you _know_ the rule we have about THAT!"

Promptly, per result of things having been shifted out of place and weighing against the front, the upper cabinet door fell open, and down tumbled a can of coffee grinds -which busted open and sprayed powder across the floor -a bag with unfrozen gel ice-packs, and a roll of paper towels, which started to unfurl as soon as it hit the floor.

"Well, now I got something to leave a trail _with,_ Gary quipped back, pinching a tissue over his nose with one hand and brushing grinds off his blanket with the other.

"That's _it."_ Donald slunk out from under Neal's bunk a second time. "I'm out for the evening too. I've almost had my fill of excitement and the sun hasn't even gone down yet."

"Unfortunately, this is pretty tame for here, so if this is too much for you, it's gonna be a miserable time," Don warned, slowly lowering his forehead into his palm in unison with Neal, who was already thinking to himself that attempting a mental escape by thought as Mike had described sounded _very_ appealing.

"My thoughts exactly. That's why I'm going," Donald grumbled, slipping out into the hall, carefully stepping over the mess.

"I'll help clean up, but then I'm going to find Lanier," Neal decided. "I'm not going back outside after two hours, but I'm getting out of here too."

Don gave a resigned sigh as he reached in the closet for the vacuum cleaner. "I might just go on a walk myself -'cause sometimes it still is a miserable time even when it is tame. Unless you get used to it to a point, like I did. It's _always gotta be something_ , doesn't it, Neal?"

"You know, it _really does,"_ Neal agreed, "Even if it's the littlest things. And as frustrating as it sometimes is, I wonder if we'd know what to do with ourselves without a constant escape without it being that way."

"Just like before the split."


End file.
